


Trial-by-Combat

by Pisan_Zapra



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Death, Fantastic Racism, Implied Sexual Content, Metaphors, Other, Slow Burn, Telepathy, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:19:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9672545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pisan_Zapra/pseuds/Pisan_Zapra
Summary: When extremist Ronan the Accuser broke away from the Kree Empire and embarked on a genocidal crusade of his own, a small world of totally serious, pretty literal people strove for survival by forging a peaceful (albeit begrudging) alliance with Xandar.  Drax the Destroyer was among this planet's four representatives, who were elected by their planet's largest tribes and were the first of their species to speak with Nova Prime.Needless to say, the road to Xandar wasn't easy to travel.In a metaphorical sense.Because a road between two planets isn't feasible to build, unless one of the planets involved was technologically advanced enough or mind-bogglingly rich enough to afford the incredibly heavy duty materials required  to make the thing safe enough to cross, and you very well can't travel an unbuilt--alright, alright, I'll stop right there.





	1. Melancholy Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> (Disclaimer: I don't own "Guardians of the Galaxy" or anything related to it; I don't even know how accurate this origin story will be when compared to whatever it is James Gunn feels like revealing about Drax and his past, but I began writing this for NaNoWriMo 2015, had fun with it, and decided to share it anyway. If any bit of this contradicts what is revealed about Drax and his past, depending on the size of the differences, I'll be marking this fic an AU or tweaking it.
> 
> Because this is a Drax origin story, for this first part, you get jazz songs with each chapter that mostly have a bit of sax.
> 
> chapter song: https://youtube.com/watch?v=NunEgYJNjiw)

There was an old story told in his tribe, a story that transcended generations and would outlive all that Drax the Destroyer knew and held dear; the story, as his father had told it, took place in very ancient times and concerned a great warrior, born Tama and later called Tlacaelel the Liberator. 

Before Tama had been repurposed, he and his people were slaughtered or enslaved by their enemies, ancestors to the Tribe-that-lives-between-the-Woods-and-Mountains.  When Tama reached adolescence, he was taken with his Master, the petty but wealthy Crisoforo, to the summit of the highest mountain.  His Master had told Tama that they traversed to this peak for recreational purposes when, in fact, he had grown jealous of his servant’s muscle mass and paranoid that one day Tama would slay him.  So it was under this mentality that Crisoforo brought Tama to the mountaintop and stabbed him through the chest.  Tama, having grown taller and stronger even as a youth and especially when compared to the frail Crisoforo, with a grip tougher than the strongest blade, took his Master’s hands into his own and walked him to the very edge of the precipice they stood on, held him over the end so that the wizened traitor’s feet dangled into the air, and let go.  

His old Master’s anguished screams brought him little comfort, for Tama had used what strength he’d had left after their last fatal encounter and he could feel his life ending.  The youth laid down, knife still in his chest, and prayed to every Celestial being he knew, had yet to know, and would never come to know, for he was young and afraid of dying.  It was after the one-hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred ninety-ninth prayer that one such Being mentored him without speaking words, as those higher Beings are wont to, but by transmitting information and directives.  This domain was not under this Being’s jurisdiction, as Tama realized, but it was watched by another local Deity, the Dragon of the Moon.  Now, the Moondragon was not a kind Celestial Being; she was haughty and cared little for those under her charge. To earn her attention, one typically had to perform a mental-magic and plead their case to her without words.  

Tama was unskilled with mental-magicks,  but the youth used his quick-thinking, drew out the blade in his chest, and carved his life onto his body.  As he was young, there wasn’t a lot to carve, but he compensated depth of content with great zeal.  At first, rough etchings of his family and his sweetheart, whom he longed to see, upon his arms.  Then, the incident that took place not so long ago, on his chest.  Finally, Tama rendered the struggles of his people on his neck and his head, how they were made captive and mistreated as he was and how he wished to act on behalf of his people to return the disrespect they were paid to their cruel masters; it was after carving this final, pathetic prayer that the youth, now as scarlet as the water and the pigments of the Forgotten Lake, became light-headed and nearly passed out, but not before catching sight of the black, serpentine Dragon, as she swiftly left her palace on one of the moons of his planet.  Just as the youth’s soul was exiting his body, the Moondragon held to its end with her tail and took it with her as she gathered materials to make a new body to house his spirit, a body of grey-blue-green-brown mud from the forest floor and red pigment from the lake.

When the youth awoke alone by their Lake, Tama knew that he had been remade, more durable and quicker to heal; no longer would he be Tama, but Tlacaelel the Liberator, with a new purpose of leading his people in a violent rebellion against their captors.  Although the Moondragon had left two of her teeth at his feet, to use as blades to slay his enemies, Tlacaelel knew that this would be as much as she cared to act on behalf of his people and, from this point, they would be on their own in their campaign against their enemies.  They succeeded and built their homes by the lake, giving birth to the Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Lake, and, in thanksgiving and remembrance, carved their lives into their skins and forged knives resembling the Dragon of the Moon’s teeth.  

It was one of Kamaria’s favorite stories.  How disappointed was she going to be if her Father dared to tell her that he failed to locate the Moondragon’s palace?

The Destroyer had yet to develop a stomach that could handle his looking out the large cockpit window and into the black, blinking void of the outer space, but it was for Kamaria; for a considerable amount of time, Drax had stood in this control area and remained, transfixed to the glass and what lay beyond, while their ship, the Harbinger, passed by one of his planet’s moons.  There was nary anyone else, save a sleeping crew member at the controls.  The craft, they were told, was set to something called ‘autopilot’, meaning it was steering itself.  Somehow, this did not mean that the Harbinger was alive, but this was a matter that was presently of little concern to Drax the Destroyer.  His was now a mission to find his people’s protectress.  He would not fail, as he did with all things.  Or, at least, his failure wouldn’t be due to his own lack of effort.  Perhaps the palace was on a different moon.  Or, perhaps, his people's indifferent goddess left the area of the planet as the Xandarian colonists had many phases ago.

Contrary to what many thought on their planet, company among the stars did not seem quiet.  Through drifting among them, the Destroyer knew now that their homeworld howled softly as it spun in its place.  It made sleeping more of an arduous task in the first few phases, but, at this point, it became a tolerated tune, much like the sounds of their Lake.  This sound was interrupted by a less pleasant one.  “Drax!”

Without looking away from the large glass pane, the Destroyer corrected whoever it was that was addressing him while practicing his Xandarian, one of the prime languages of the Nova Empire.  “You cannot be overly familiar and call me Drax.  You must use the entire title.”  The Destroyer didn’t need to turn and look upon this messenger’s visage to recognize that this was the nasally tone of the Xandarian merchant who was called Fox Valor.  Valor was unusual, but perhaps not unusual by Xandarian standards; he was pale and reedy with ruddy hair and often smelled like his preferred beverage, an odd-colored liquid that did not resemble anything from the native to Drax’s planet.

Fox Valor groaned.  The Destroyer could hear the man place his right hand upon his brow.  Valor did this often in the company of him and the other representatives of the tribes.  For whatever reason, Fox’s merchant associate, called Niels Grendelaar, would always tell him to cease the motion, as it was ‘impolite’.  The true meaning of the gesture was unknown to Drax, who simply dismissed it as a nervous twitch akin to blinking too often or tapping one’s foot.   All wastes of energy, hinting to a less-than stable, weak spirit in need of direction and discipline.  “Alright, asshole.  Sorry.  Drax the Destroyer.  Your family’s on the communication line.”

‘Asshole’.  Another odd Xandarian term Drax was not familiar with yet.  Hole, as he’d understood, was what you dug into the ground.  Was the meaning of this word altered when compounded with another?  And what of the word ‘ass’?  By itself, ‘ass’ was a Xandarian term that caused Niels Grendelaar to become red with embarrassment, one that he insisted none of them were to use when on Xandar and especially not in front of Nova Prime.  Yet, Valor still used it, under his breath and oftenest when Grendelaar was absent.  It seemed from his tone and this secrecy that this word was an insult.

The hulk quickly pivoted himself in two steps and lunged for Valor in the next strides, very swiftly pushing him out the control-room’s entryway.  In one motion, his beefy, grey-blue-green forearms wrapped around Fox’s waist  and held the Xandarian up as he squirmed.

“You sonuvabitch!”  This appeared to be one of Fox’s favorite exclamations, but its use was very improper for this situation.   

“My mother was not named Abitch.  And you will not mock me by calling me Asshole,” Drax named his terms, as he held tighter to Fox.  “You will refer to me by my full title, and nothing less, or, so help you, I will remove your throat and throw it into the Lake when we return from this diplomatic meeting.”

“Motherfu--”  The Destroyer squeezed and slammed his prey headfirst into a wall before Valor could finish that exclamation, what seemed to be his second favorite.  His actions did not, however, cease this grating whining.  ”You’re not serious, are you??!”

“I am always serious, especially at this present moment, but that should be little concern to you, considering the threat that I have made.  You have accepted the terms I set forth.”

“I...what--?  A second, resounding slam into the wall.

“That was not a question!  You have accepted the terms I set forth!”

“Yeah, alright!  I accept!  Now put me down--!”

“Put me down, whom are you addressing?”

“Are you supposed to use ‘whom’ like th--?”  A third slam.  “Shit!  Drax the Destroyer!  Put me down, Drax the Destroyer!”  Accepting that the two of them had come to an agreement, Drax obeyed, dropped the pale one on the ground, and left for the room containing the ship’s communication devices.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What a wonder was this telecommunication gadget.  It was as if Drax the Destroyer was looking into another window, one that was not facing the twinkling void that they were apparently moving in, but his home planet.  Once or twice, his hands moved to the faces projected onto the screen, even though he knew that he would not touch familiar flesh but a slightly convex, glassy surface.  The forms on the other side he knew all too well.  There was a woman, the only adult from his village without red markings carved into her skin, dressed in a simple shift that was cut with many panels to allow her to remain cool in the planet’s hot, humid atmosphere; she was seated comfortably with a small child on her lap, who wore a sundress that reached her knees and was cut only to reveal the shoulders.  Both appeared as confused, but relieved, as he was from his end, judging from their shifting-in-place and furrowed brows.  They were not in their nice little home by the lake, but surrounded by the furs, metals, and foreign spices of the merchants’ storage facility on their native planet.  The sound from their end was not pristine, as there was a small, unceasing tintinnabulation jutting into the feed.  Perhaps it was raining there?  But that couldn’t be.  The pair looked dry.

“Husband,” the woman, his wife, Hovat, mouthed and, with a delay, the audio matched up.  “Kamaria wishes to ask something of you, but I already informed her that you will deny her request.”  Such a sweet language was theirs, so simple compared to that of the Xandarians.  Perhaps others would think its words sounded too jagged or had too many consonants, but it was still so welcome to the Destroyer’s ears.

“Mother,” Kamaria squealed, pursing her lips into a small pout.  How was it that features he’d seen in himself and his spouse became so adorable when so seamlessly combined and miniaturized in this one, their little Moon?  “Father hasn’t even met him yet!”

“Am I to understand that you have found the one you will call husband, my Love,” the Destroyer put in half-jokingly.  As predicted, this question simply made the small one giggle and shake her head, as she reached beneath the sight-line of the screen and pulled out a fuzzy, smaller rodent that she held up from under its armpits.  The tall man leaned closer in, staring back at this odd little creature’s beady little eyes.

“He told me his name was Lorcan and he wants to live with Mother and I, while you are gone, so that he can defend us,” she so sweetly insisted, as she nuzzled this grey and black masked creature with her cheek.  Drax the Destroyer had not seen one of these creatures since his own youth, and he had long thought them extinct.  “He wants to be our friend.”

The warrior crossed his arms and leaned back, to reclaim some dominance over this little situation, “Kamaria, that creature is for roasting on pits and eating.  It makes for a poor companion.  And it cannot speak--”

“But I talked to it without using words, much like Tlacaelel had spoken with the Moondragon!  Well, except not at all.” While the statement was endearing, claims like this often made the Destroyer wonder if his little daughter was prone to fibbing or a little mad.  After her insistence, she lifted the beast and turned it in synchronization with her small neck turning, so that their foreheads were pressed against each other and they looked at one another eye to eye; the Destroyer’s little daughter hummed, and then turned back to her father and remarked, “Lorcan just told me you will make friends with one of his kind.  He will mock you, but you will still comfort him when he is grieving--”

“Kamaria, my Child, that is enough,” Drax quietly asserted, as he did not shift his position; he was going to remain rock-solid in his decision, as hard as it would be to make.  “I side with Mother on this debate.  You will release the thing into the wild and you will not seek it again, unless it is to hunt it.”

Her little eyes shifted into little crescents and her mouth grew, as she drew the little beast closer to her chest.  “But Father--”

His wife reentered the conversation, smiling as she told their Little Sweetheart, “The decision is made, Little One.  Your mother and father are agreed.  We will return the beast to his home after we’ve finished speaking with Father.”

With a small pout and a sigh, his little girl set the animal on the ground and then crossed her own arms and leaned back; clearly, she was mirroring her father.  Whether it was intentional or not did not matter, because the results were the same: a sight too sweet to seriously consider her wants, but enough to stir her father into winning back her favor.  “Kamaria, our craft passed a moon.”

With a curious gaze, the Destroyer’s daughter lowered her arms and leaned a little more forward.  “Did you see her or her palace?”

The Destroyer responded with a shake of his head, but he did not avert his gaze.  “Not yet, but, when I find her, I will tell her that you are eager to exchange words with her.”

With that promise, her eyes grew from the sad crescents to full waxing gibbouses.  “Oh, Father, really?”

The Destroyer eased his position, leaning forward and slowly lowering his arms into his lap.  “What would I have to gain from crafting this pretty little lie for you?”

“My admiration.”  What a clever little child.  Where did she get this quick wit?  Surely, it wasn’t from him.

“But don’t I already have that?”

The Little One gave her impish smile, as she gleefully unclasped her arms and put them in her lap.  “Perhaps.”

The wife simply beamed, as she began to reach for the bottom of the screen, “Kammi, you know better than to be coy with your father.  Now, wasn’t there something else that you wished to ask of him or shall we bid him farewell once more?”

The little one looked up, as she removed her hands from her lap and placed them on her mother’s arms, as if she had the strength to stop her from shutting the device off, “Hold on, I forgot.”  Their Sweetest One hummed once again, as she wiggled slightly, then looked forward once more and beseeched, “I want to hear a story.”

“You have your mother for that.”

“But you tell stories differently than mother,” Kamaria very cutely claimed.  “I have Mother around, so I can ask her to tell me her tales whenever I want to.  But I have to go with mother in this merchants’ storage unit and activate this weird thing to hear something from you.”  Reasoning like that from one so young was almost infuriating.  Arguments with the offspring were difficult, but her little victories delightfully hinted to the wonderful woman that she would surely grow into.

“Then, it would make sense for me to do this for you.  Would you like to hear about the Moondragon--”

“I’ve heard that so many times,” Kamaria laughed, and there was no lie in her statement.  “I want to hear about Attor and Kairavi.”  Her request brought a rare smile to both of her parents’ faces.  If their species blushed, they would have shown now.

“That is a long and dull story, and perhaps you’ve heard it as often as the story of Tlacaelel the Liberator,” Drax humbly remarked.  “Wouldn’t you prefer to hear about what it is to travel beyond the stars?  To see one of our moons and anticipate visiting another planet?”

The daughter shook her head with enough intensity to move her entire body and incite her mother to grip onto both shoulders, to stop her from falling over.  “Space is scary, Father.”  Of course.  Such was the xenophobic willfulness of a child, the uninformed dismissal which prevented children from trying new foods or attempting new feats.

“Very well, my child.  But, the way that you prefer me to tell the tale makes it a lengthy story.  I may only be able to tell it in part,” the Destroyer cautioned with open palms and shoulders raised in a lackadaisical manner.  “Or I could manage to recount the history in its entirety by abridging it.”

“No, Father,” Kamaria huffily commanded.  “It’s not the same if you get rid of the good stuff.”  The wife let out her laugh, her glorious laugh that rocked her body within its violent possession and tilted her head back.

“What if you told it in installments,” Hovat diplomatically suggested, as she shifted her head to face the pair, eye-to-eye, once again.  “Tell what you can before we have to end this call, and then, when we should speak again, you’ll continue.”

The suggestion was accepted by their youth with a loud, “Yes!”

So it was, with a small amused laugh, Drax the Destroyer began to recount the anecdote of Attor and Kairavi at Kamaria’s usual preferred starting point, “The story, as you prefer it, begins with one of my precursors, Drago the Destroyer, born Dubh to Iakobos and Mikha’el.  Now, in our tribe, there are many titles and, with them, come histories and duties.  The Liberator is the oldest title of our tribe and, with that title, comes the responsibility of leading the council comprised of the other oldest title-holders.  Can you tell me some other titles that you can recall?”

Kamaria gave her thoughtful hum and stared up into the ceiling.  Her mother, smiling, gave this prompt: “Who performs the executions of the wicked?”

“Ealasaid the Executioner!  And--ooh!  Jabari the Judge investigates the cases of the accused, to determine if they truly are wicked and deserving of Ealasaid’s services!  And Mother is--!”

“Your Father knows what I do, Lovely One.”

“The Destroyer, Father!  What is the mission of the Destroyer?”

“You know that as well--”

“But Father--!”

“Tell your Father, Kamaria,” Hovat interjected, “to show that you remember what it was that Drago the Destroyer was meant to do.”

“Drago’s function was to destroy our tribe’s enemies!”

“And who were our enemies?”

“Those that threatened to destroy our tribe, Mother!”

“Yes,” Drax cut in, drinking up his Sweetest One’s zeal.  “The Destroyer does not perform their function without cause; they destroy in order to protect and preserve house and home from external influences.  Now, Dubh earned the title as youths in our village are able to; he did not inherit it, as his parents were without titles, but, when he came of age and felt the time was right, journeyed out of the Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Lake, searched his soul, and then returned and made the request for the title to the council, because he came to know, through his journey, by examining his heart-of-hearts that the Destroyer’s was the mission he was suited to take up.  As with the youths that journey out, there was also the choice to craft a title of his own, but this had no appeal to Dubh, as he knew he would struggle to create a mission for his title and that it could hold no history beyond his own accomplishments.

His forebearer was called Dagon the Destroyer, born Isonash to Dido the Destroyer, born Anaba, and her husband, Fu.  To earn his title, Dagon met and slew his own twin brother in combat and had subsequently taken to his mission with such great vigor that he did not pursue a spouse or the company of whores; as he had no offspring, he did not have a direct blood relative that he would have liked to pass his title onto and could have simply agreed to hand his mission over to Dubh.  Instead, the title was refused to Dubh unless he defeated Dagon the Destroyer in combat, before the council and under the light of our moons, as our traditions state.  Who would blame Dagon the Destroyer for refusing to relinquish his title?  When one retires from their mission, they join the ranks of the untitled and lose their privilege to vote in the polls held by the council.  

Because Dubh’s parents were without titles, the blades which they lent their son were dulled.  But, what Dubh lacked in sufficient weaponry, he made up for with youth and vim.  Though Dagon’s knives were larger, Dubh dodged his stabs.  Though Dagon’s kicks were more practiced, Dubh took his strikes well.  Though Dubh was staggering, he remained standing.  Their match took an entire phase of the moons, until Dagon the Destroyer looked upon Dubh’s bruised, bleeding stance and recognized his opponent’s stubbornness.  So, he ended the match and determined his foe to be a worthy successor; if Dagon the Destroyer had wished, he could have continued the match until one of them fell dead, as was his right.

Dagon became Isonash once more, but, when we speak of him, unless it was before he took up his mission, he must always be called Dagon the Destroyer.  Dubh was repurposed into Drago the Destroyer, as you know him.  The elders spent many phases teaching Drago the Destroyer of his antecedents’ histories.

It was Dagon the Destroyer who had begun the Destroyer’s one-man campaign against the Xandarian colonies, when they still inhabited our planet.  This was a mission that the Destroyers after carried on, until my term and our tribes coalesced and formed an alliance with the Xandarian merchants.

His mother and antecedent, Dido the Destroyer, won back territory from the Tribe-that-lives-between-the-Woods-and-Mountains in a match between herself and our rival tribe’s champion, Monashir the Mutilator, and lost an arm in the process.

Now, Drago the Destroyer was the forty-second in his line.  If I recounted the accomplishments of all of his forebearers, well, it would be long past the time you’d need to sleep.”

“Oh, Father!”

“So, we will skip that part.  Instead, we will recount one of Drago the Destroyer’s many accomplishments: starting a family of his own.  Drago the Destroyer settled down with Jaina the Judge, born Ainjyl to Jerel the Judge, born Naalnish, and Edelmira the Executioner, born Wenona.  Their union was accepted by the council through trial-by-combat, with ten other titled and untitled suitors of Jaina’s choice; after forty phases, their union went unopposed by the rest of the tribe.  In time, Jaina passed away giving birth to her son, Attor.  Attor was very much like you, Kamaria; he enjoyed hunting and concerning himself with odd, ambitious matters.  Before the end of his childhood’s span, Drago the Destroyer’s son wished to possess his father’s title.

Drago the Destroyer had amassed quite a life carved into his body by one of his oldest friends, Hex the Hacker, born Hex; as a favor to Hex, Drago allowed Hex’s child to carve her first mark into his skin.  Hex’s daughter was named Kairavi, and her father was called Patwin.  Now, do you recall what it is that the Hacker carves, my Dear?”

Kamaria began with her thoughtful little hum and sweet squirming in place, as she turned to look her mother in the eye.  “I know this, Father.  How wouldn’t I?  The Hacker carves whatever it is that the wearer wishes to commemorate on their skin.  They do so with song, to alleviate the pain, and conversation, to pass the time.  The Hacker comes to know the entire tribe and their accomplishments.”

“Yes, my Sweet.  Now, it happened one phase that a group of youths returned from their journeys outside of the Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Lake; this band had picked up youths from other tribes, who wished to join our ranks.  I have no information of the outsiders’ genealogy or what they were called previously.  One of the outsider youths made a request to challenge Drago for his title.  Drago knew well of his son’s ambitions to become the Destroyer, and had wanted to relinquish the title peaceably when his child became of age; so Drago the Destroyer refused, and the two met again in combat.

Drago the Destroyer’s knives were now sharp and, in spite of having grown as large as a tree trunk, he was still swift as the wind.  This was not enough to meet with his foe, for, unbeknownst to him, his enemy possessed a Xandarian firearm.  Never before had anyone in our tribe entered combat with weaponry such as that and never again has it been attempted.  Without shame, the foe drew out his gun at the start of the match and reduced Drago’s head into a bloody, red pulp through multiple shots.

Having failed to inherit his mother’s sense, Drago the Destroyer’s son burst through the crowd encircling the village centre, where the match had so quickly finished, and removed his father’s knives from the carcass’ dead hands; now armed, Attor stupidly charged at his father’s enemy, now his, and received a shot in the abdomen for his efforts.

Perhaps it was through the grace of the Moondragon that Attor awoke, many phases later, in the storage cellar of Hex the Hacker.  As it had turned out, Attor was durable and withstood this strike, but barely; he merely needed time to regrow his internal organs and regain his strength.  Hex’s pretty daughter knew that Attor was too weak to sit up and eat, so she often entered the cellar with rice, vegetables, liquid, and some meat that she would chew but wouldn’t swallow; instead, she would put her mouth to his and insure he would gulp it down without choking.  It was through her, in time, that Attor heard more of his foe, who now called himself Daedalus the Destroyer.  Daedalus the Destroyer would oftenest go to Hex the Hacker, to have his life updated with the most mundane and unimportant of events, such as an excellent breakfast that he had or a celebration of the lake looking red as it always does.  As a Hacker, clever Kairavi knew that her mother would be privy to the most vital information of Daedalus the Destroyer’s life.

It was then that Attor and Kairavi made a blood pact, carved to Attor’s body by her knife, his first mark, and the two conspired to avenge the forty-second Destroy--”  The sentence was interrupted by a knock at the entryway.  Drax turned away from the screen, and his eyes met once more with Fox Valor’s.

“Drax the Destroyer.  You’re needed in the room of Pax the Peacemaker.  Like, ASAP.  Wrap it up,” Valor said with an odd motion of a nearly, fully closed fist, save for a thumb left out, and then pointing behind him.

Drax nodded, to show that they were understood, more or less (what was there to wrap up?) and then returned to his family.  “My loves, I must depart.”

Kamaria, as strong-willed as she was for her age, began to tear up and touch the screen, knowing as well as her father that such an action could not bring him back to her.  “Oh, Father.  When are you coming back?”

“Sixteen phases,” Hovat put in, so kindly, as she took her daughter’s hands into her own and rubbed them gently.  “Father will speak with you again at the next phase.  Now, fare him well.”

With a pout.  “Goodbye, Father.”  It was the Destroyer that fumbled, until he was able to locate the correct button and disconnect the machine’s connection; once more, he was without his wife and child.


	2. Body and Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUFg6HvljDE)

Pax the Peacemaker was the only elder of a tribe, hers being the oldest of the tribes known as the Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Ocean, to accompany their party; she was said to be thousands of years old and, unlike the others in the room, still could remember a time before the Xandarian colonies came to their world.  Her complexion was stony grey, as her people were said to have been carved out of the mountain by their diffident deity, and the pigmented mixture applied to her skin was a deep blue.  As was her tribe’s practice, her paint was changed with every phase of the moons; today, the patterns were angled, contouring her wrinkles and visage into a most fearsome one.  Her body language, while seated upon her bed, was far less imposing, as she was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. She wore a simple shift of a cloth, tied under her arms, as was one of the traditional ways women dressed on their continent.  The fine material of her garment, however, was not traditional, but imported by the Nova Empire.  At the foot of her simple cot were the other two representatives, both from different tribes than Drax the Destroyer and Pax the Peacemaker.  

At his left was the deeply blue Manaba the Mutilator, donning her animal-hides, which were cut in a manner that clung closely to her form and allowed ventilation (she had been offered Xandarian garb, as the rest were, but refused); as was the way of her tribe, the Tribe-that-lives-between-the-Forest-and-Mountains, she also wore a pigmented mix of yellow.  While Pax’s people obtained their pigments from the seacliffs, Manaba’s tribe gathered theirs from the deepest caves of mountains, which they too were carved from (though their original hue had changed because of their evolution); her people changed their paints to suit the occasion, and now hers were painted with many swirls and whorls around her form.  Manaba sat with her legs and arms crossed and back straight, appropriate for one of her rank; when Drax entered the room, she gave a curt glance, and then looked away.  As tempting as it was to challenge this woman, the successor to his forebearer’s rival from his people’s enemies, now was not the time, especially in front of the revered Peacemaker.

At the Peacemaker’s other side was the brown-green one called Adahy, who lay on her stomach and swung her legs to-and-fro like a child, from the Tribe-that-lives-in-the-Forest; as was now customary with all in her tribe, she bore no title.  Her people no longer believed that they were crafted from the trees and now only wore what was sold to them by the Xandarian merchants.  So Adahy the Untitled wore what was called a white shirt, a dark pants (for sweating in?), and shoes with socks (what use the socks had, Drax knew not); she didn’t even look up as the Destroyer entered the Peacemaker’s small bedroom, took his place on the floor, crossed his legs, and joined them.

Only the Peacemaker dared make eye-contact with Drax, as she began, in breathy, slow Xandarian, “Drago the Destroyer.  Tell me how your family fares.”

With a slow, reverent cant of his head to the side, the Destroyer corrected his Elder with a tone that mirrored his Superior’s, but spoke in his native dialect.  “Drago was one of my antecedents, I am called Drax.  And my wife and daughter looked well when I last spoke with them.  Thank you.  It seemed that it was raining where they were, but they weren’t soaked.  I believe the precipitation began after they called.”  The Destroyer broke eye-contact, when he realized an error.  “I had forgotten to tell them to remain inside, until the downpour was completed.”  But his wife was sensible, and knew how their child disliked being wet when she wasn’t swimming in the lake; surely, Hovat didn’t need to be reminded this.

“It’s static,” Adahy interrupted in her quicker, more advanced Xandarian.  “We have a connection, as they say, of shit.”  ‘Shit’ was one of the few Xandarian terms the quartet had learned, by carefully and sternly group-interrogating Valor and afterwards regretting the waste of effort enough to never repeat the method hitherto.  How oddly Xandarians and Adahy’s people spoke, how nonsensically they plied esoteric monosyllables into sentences.

“Foolish Adahy,” The Mutilator fumed in her people’s very pointed, vowel-less dialect, as she cracked her own neck by turning it.  “How would any of our party be able to operate the communication device if the connection were not made of wire?”

The Destroyer frowned and pivoted his body to face his inherited opponent.  How informally he’d been referenced in her question, without so much as a mention of his title! “Mutilator, you do not have my permission to omit my title!”

“Nor have I enough reverence in my smallest finger to recognize the legitimacy of your title!”

The Destroyer feinted towards his rival, but did not move out of his spot in front of their elder.  The gesture did not inspire Manaba to fall back, but, instead, encouraged her to copy it.

“Mutilator, Destroyer,” the Peacemaker quietly called, and, like obedient children, as they were when their ages were compared to the Peacemaker, both ceased their intimidations and looked once more at their leader.  “I have not summoned you to pick a fight, I have summoned you both to pray with me.”

Ever irreverent, the Untitled One rolled her eyes.

“Peacemaker, perhaps you have forgotten, but my people’s Moondragon has a fickle, near-perennially indifferent character,” Drax slowly and softly interjected.

“But, in our peoples’ histories, have not our Celestials acted once on our behalves?”  None could object to this, and, instead, stiffened when they anticipated what they knew would be asked of them next.  “Now, hold hands and let us all beseech Them.”  Half groaning, all obeyed.  Adahy refused to grip, but allowed her hand to be held in the Destroyer’s.  Conversely, the Mutilator dug her long nails into his other.  “Destroyer, you have told me in the past that your Daughter has spoken with the Moondragon.”

The Destroyer and the other women shut their eyes, as was customary for this prayer square.  “You are mistaken, Elder.  Kamaria only wishes to have words with her, but she has told me that she has spoken with creatures unable to talk.”

“Kamaria is a good, holy child.  You should allow her to study with my tribe’s monks.  They would help her to hone her latent capabilities and achieve peak physical and mental perfection.”  Such would have made Kamaria happy, Drax knew, but the choice was not yet hers to make.  There was no need to tell the Doddering One this, however, so it went unsaid.  Receiving no answer from the Destroyer, the Peacemaker much more quickly began her prayer in their world’s most ancient tongue, the language from which their languages were born.

The other three did not entirely know what it was this Old One said, but the Destroyer and Mutilator had an inkling and then some.  Drax believed it went something like this:

“ **Dear Celestials, lording over our galaxy and guarding our hearths:**

**We of the four largest tribes of our homeworld humbly beseech you and journey to Xandar to speak with Nova Prime, to beg her forgiveness for attacking her Empire’s colonies, and to make an offering so that her kind will give us weaponry that we lack and need.**

**We beg that you watch over our planet, and to continue keeping it away from the roving eyes of the Mad Titan, Thanos, and his lackey, the Accuser called Ronan, so that they do not strike before we have completed our quest.**

**We who address you will now make our names and missions known:**

**I am called Pax the Peacemaker, of the Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Ocean; in some histories, I am the oldest being of our world.  My mission as Peacemaker is to insure that unnecessary conflicts are quelled before they take place and, if I rule an ongoing struggle as necessary, to help warring parties find common ground and come to a peaceable agreement.  As the ocean flows through streams into our lake, let our member hailing from the Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Lake now speak after me** .”

Drax swallowed, picking up on his cue, and, then, very slowly spoke in a tongue consisting mostly of his tribe’s dialect and a few words of the oldest language.

“I am called Drax **the** **Destroyer** , of **the** **Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Lake**.  Mine is a **mission** to **destroy** outside forces that threaten **my people** ; it was decided that I among **my people** should go on this journey through **trial-by-combat**.   **My people** were once **slaves** and **enemies** with the **Tribe-that-lives-between-the-Forest-and-Mountains** , but I am now holding hands with a member from that **tribe** , as our **missions** are **united** and **our purpose** is the same.  Let **our representative** from **the Tribe-that-lives-between-the-Forest-and-Mountains** now speak.”

Beginning with something that sounded like a growl, to clear her throat, the Mutilator continued their prayer with only a few terms from her dialect and more words from the oldest language than the amount Destroyer had used.

“ **I am called Manaba the Mutilator, of the Tribe-that-lives-between-the-Forest-and-Mountains; I share this title with my twin, Meda the Mutilator,  and we split our mission and duties among us.  My sister sees into the next plane and assesses the wicked who wrongly mutilated others on ours, while I fight them and allow them to live, but in suffering for the rest of their days.  My volunteering to join this quest went unopposed.  As my people joined and left the Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Ocean thousands upon thousands of phases ago, they were again splintered hundreds upon thousands of phases ago, and the group born from my people were** the Tribe-that-lives-in-the-Forest.  Our representative from the Tribe-that-lives-in-the-Forest should now speak.”  Manaba did not seem unable to speak this last sentence in the old language, but, the rest assumed, she did it out of courtesy for the youngest in their group.

Simply speaking Xandarian, Adahy professed her part.

“I’m just Adahy, not called anything else...except sometimes, maybe Addie, and I’m with the Forest tribe.  I...live on our planet and I guess I like it enough.  To be honest, I’m only here ‘cause nobody from my tribe wanted to go.  And I really, really, really don’t want our homes to get wrecked by Ronan or Thanos or his weird-ass children, whatever weird-ass means…”  A pause.  “Amen.”

Pax the Peacemaker blinked once at the utterance of that last Xandarian word; then, finished their group-prayer.

“We beg you, on behalf of our tribes, guide us on our mission, so that we act according to your wills, and save our homes.”

The four squeezed their eyes tighter and strengthened their grips.  Manaba, living up to her honorific, dug her nails deeper into the Destroyer’s knuckles.  Drax winced, sensing blood running down his hand.  Did she do this to the Peacemaker as well?

“And, we must let go,” Pax commanded, speaking in slow Xandarian once again, and everyone, more than eager, obeyed.  “Now, we must all rest.”  The Destroyer made a quick glance at their Elder’s knuckles, only to turn away as swiftly.

“Mutilator, it was disrespectful of you to dig your nails into my hand while we were in prayer.”

“Destroyer, do you see my smallest finger,” Manaba questioned, as she held up her pinky and then gestured from the tip of her finger to the end of its distal phalanx.  “The respect that I have for you is even less than this.”  How the Destroyer longed to fulfill his function and honor his forebearer by having at it with this Mutilator, but he could not act on this desire.  It was not appropriate to do, especially in the presence of their Elder.  This blatant show of disrespect could not remain unaddressed, however.

The Destroyer imitated the manner which she presented her hands, but pointed only to the tip of his finger.  “I would invite you to squint, but you will still be unable to see the quantity of respect I reciprocate for you.”

Adahy said nothing as she wiped her knees, stood up, and walked out while shaking her head.  After finishing her last sentence, the Peacemaker already shut her eyes and began her sleeping cycle.  The two Youngers put aside their grudge, when they heard their Elder snore.  The man gently got a hold of the Oldest, placing one arm under her legs and another to support her head as he’d held Kamaria when she was still an infant.  His enemy punched Pax the Peacemaker’s pillow until it was softened, then removed the blanket.  The Oldest Woman was laid down and then neatly tucked in.  The two glared at the other, then, after exchanging no words, simply nodded.  The Mutilator shut the lights and left the room first.  Drax stood  in the dark for a minute, and then followed her lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read and enjoy Drax's comic stories, but, usually, his stuff doesn't have like a ton of supporting characters to adapt. So I wound up having to make up quite a few OC's to make this thing run. I promise none of these OC's will turn out to be his long-lost sister, Princess Mary Sue from the kingdom of Bullshit. Not including his wife and daughter, two other characters are straight-up adaptations of comic characters that I'd never see getting adapted for the Cinematic Universe and one is sort of a composite of comic characters that I'd never see getting adapted either.
> 
> Anyway, since I sort of imagined this live-actionish, I did write two character bits with two actors in mind. I totally imagined the Peacemaker being played by the incredibly influential Nichelle Nichols. I'd totally see her leading a diplomatic, goodwill mission. The other character I definitely wrote with someone in mind, you'll see in the next chapter.
> 
> And, since this chapter was kind of short, I will be posting that other chapter tomorrow.


	3. Chant in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQjz5pHbqXM)

As he’d oft occupied what few hours remained unruled by summons from the family or the representatives’ mandatory gatherings, the Destroyer returned, once more, to the Harbinger’s control-room.  Their schedule had been writ in accordance with the Nova Empire’s highly unusual solar calendar, so that the representatives would become accustomed to the length and breadth of hours upon Nova Prime’s base planet.  This time was meant to be taken for sleep.  Yet, whenever the Destroyer entered his chambers and laid upon the cheap, soft table (called a ‘cot’) they’d provided him for entering the REM cycle, something in his stomach would inspire rebellion in the rest of his systems.  Or, perhaps, something else condensed in his heart of hearts and weighed his core so heavily that even a man of his great strength struggled to carry it on.  What little time he’d had to himself had to be spent in this chamber, not his private quarters.  Only at this place did the Destroyer’s stomach recall its manners and his heart lost its weight.  Only here, searching for the Moondragon’s palace, did the Destroyer feel as much at ease as he could be while denied the company of his beloved family.  For try as they might, to replace his own routine and rituals with theirs, the Destroyer’s body would not forget where it was meant to be.

The Xandarian crewmember by the controls was not the same who’d slept at his post before Valor had called upon Drax.  This only made sense, as the Harbinger’s crewmembers operated within this part of the ship in scheduled shifts.  Although, admittedly, most of the Xandarians aboard this craft were beneath Drax the Destroyer’s notice, the sole, tannish-orange-pink man currently operating the craft’s navigation systems stood tall and apart from the rest of his crew (albeit not as tall as Drax).  This was the lean, but not uniformly toned, man known to their people as Niels Grendelaar.  His hair and eyes bore the hues of night and his demeanor often appeared hungry or somewhat agitated, though why his face appeared thusly constructed confounded the Destroyer.  (Was it in the pronounced size in the whites of his eyes?  Or the length of his jaw, which seemed only exacerbated by the sizeable jutting of his chin?  Maybe this appetite revealed itself in the hearty bags under his eyes?)  Anyway, as Drax re-entered this place, Grendelaar turned to him and maintained eye-contact for more than a few moments.  This was not simple acknowledgement that Drax had come into this room.

“You have something important you would wish to discuss with me, Captain,” the Destroyer monotonously assumed aloud, in Xandarian, as he found his corner by the door and took his usual place for moongazing.

“Don’t call me that, Mr. the Destroyer,” Grendelaar addressed Drax in his strange but acceptable manner, while simultaneously returning Drax’s Xandarian, pressing a red, circular growth by the steering apparatus with one hand, and operating the apparatus with another.  When his finger pressed upon the raised bit, the object flashed and resembled a blood-colored star.  “I don’t like Fox either, but I can’t have you manhandling my crew like that or worse on a regular basis.”

“You are not having me do such a thing.  I am acting of my own accord and I am also not giving an apology to Fox Valor,” the Destroyer declared, unblinking and wholly unrepentant as he knew he ought to be.  “I have told him several times to use my title, yet he chooses to ignore my directives.  His disrespect merits only more disrespect from me.  It is only right.”

“I know that’s how things work where you’re from,” Grendelaar put in, rather curtly, after some delay spent stifling a groan.  “Look, Mr. the Destroyer.  I had a hard time convincing my crew to even let you onboard; I trust my crew to do their jobs, and I know they won’t question my authority.  But they’ll talk, if you keep this up.  They already see you as a hostile.  You don’t want to be seen as a threat to their safety.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because--”  Grendelaar broke away eye-contact, seemingly to examine the brightly colored readings from another window (but the Destroyer knew better) and to trace the illuminated script with his finger.  “Because I’ll probably have to toss you in the brig, Mr. the Destroyer.”

“You do not look capable of throwing a man of my size any distance,” the Destroyer somewhat laughed humorlessly.

“It’s--it’s an expression,” the captain stammered, brows angled a little more closely and aggressively than usual.  “You wanna be put into isolation--in this dark, dank room--for the rest of this trip, Mr. the Destroyer?  No communal meetings, no eating with the others, no calls, no nothing?  You gotta sleep in the same room you take a shit, eat where you shit.”

“You had told us not to use that word, and I do not believe possess a room capable of confining me and restricting me in such an undignified way.”

“Not use it in front of Nova Prime--”  Grendelaar’s sigh could be contained no longer.  With a sharp sidelong glance, their eye-contact had been restored.  “I’ve been showing proper respect to you, Mr. the Destroyer, haven’t I?”  

Without hesitation, the Destroyer gave a nod.  “You have not yet forgotten to use my title.”

“You gotta show respect to me then, Mr. the Destroyer,” the Harbinger’s captain claimed.

“I am,” Drax replied.  “I have not used your title, after you had asked me not to, and I have not begun to fight you, even though you made such bold threats to me--”

“Fighting my crew is not respectful, Mr. the Destroyer,” Niels too quickly cut in and, well, even the Destroyer had to see logic in this assessment.  “They keep doing shi--stuff like that, you gotta tell me so I can deal with ‘em.  They’re my crew and they have to listen to me.  My crew, my rules.”

“Fox is willful and has not been listening to you,” the grey-man asserted.  “But, so long as I respect you, I will not fight your crew again.”  This did not seem to please Niels, although it was very true, though it did induce him to break eye-contact once more and, thereby, end this stern lecture of a conversation.

From such a short distance away, the Destroyer was more than capable of looking over the captain’s shoulder and reading what he was able to.  There were numbers in the Xandarian numerology.  There were a few simple prepositions such as ‘the’, ‘in’, etc.  There were also truncated words, called...abbreviations, was it?  With the Xandarian Drax had been taught, as a part of this mission, he could identify what glyph matched up with which sound and speak it aloud.  What exactly such words meant, altogether, however, was a mystery to him.  Away, the Destroyer turned to the glass, becoming occupied by more familiar things.

If he were not here, at this time, Drax’s body knew well that he would have been on his way home from a day spent Destroying things.  On his way, he would have found and kilt something good for his family to eat or found and collected an unusual rock to occupy his little daughter’s odd attentions.  Perhaps, now, his dear, little family would be compelled to act as he was; perhaps his beloved wife and daughter were looking out into the night sky at this very time, at the very same moon that he was searching with his eyes.

“You’re here, practically all the time.  Just standing there.  Looking out that window.  You ever get sick of watching all these moons, Mr. the Destroyer?”  Oh, Grendelaar wished to speak once more with him.  Hm.  Yes.  What was this called again?  Talking small?  When Drax and the other representatives were taught the Xandarians’ language, they were warned that people would wish to do this with them.

“I am not interested in chatting-chit.”  Blunt, direct.

“I’m not either.  But remember what I told you, Mr. the Destroyer?  We gotta practice.”

Drax groaned, but, some moments after, acquiesced with a simple, “Never.  I am never tired.”

“Manaba told me your tribe’s oldest story, Mr. the Destroyer.  About your Moon-Goddess.”  This talk-small did not seem particularly beneficial to Drax’s missions.  As it seemed useless, the Destroyer did not bother to find Niels’ eyes and, instead, analyzed a crater of the passing moon.

“Mmhm,” was the most dignified response he could deign.

“You’re looking for your goddess, Mr. the Destroyer.”  Such a true statement still did nothing to add prestige to this meaningless little confirmation and exchange of facts.

“Yes.”

“What are you planning on doing if you find her, Mr. the Destroyer?”  His tone sounded somewhat tired, but not yet enough to end this dialogue between them.

“I will tell her that my daughter wishes to speak with her,” he’d stated as he squinted into a particularly dark side of the moon.  “And then, I will do combat with my Goddess.”

If most members of his tribe had heard Drax made such a blasphemous claim, they would report him to the Elders.  If his tribe’s Oldest did not immediately strip him of his title, many others would wish to fight him for it because they’d believe him unworthier of it than they’d deemed before.  He himself felt something hard encasing his heart, as he made such a bold declaration, yet, in his very heart of hearts, Drax knew it to be right and true.  When a man like himself bore witness to as much suffering as he, how could it be just to allow the guilty parties remain unpunished?  By remaining idle in her palace, with her vast wisdom and great power to enact awesome change, was his Goddess not as much at fault as the perpetrators?  Yet, many of his people would not hold to this same opinion.  Niels, however?  The captain simply let out a dark, short chuckle.  Strange man.  Niels.

“You’re just hopping out the airlock and fighting her?  You’re not afraid of her sic-ing her angels on you, Mr. the Destroyer, or sending you to Hell?”

This statement confused the Destroyer, in numerous more ways than one.  “If I must.  But She does not send people to Hell.  The quality of our spirit determines which afterlife we merit, and that, in turn, reveals itself in the full breadth of our actions that we take and the manner we conduct ourselves throughout the length of our mortal coil.  I do not know what angels are, let alone if our Goddess would…’sick’ them on me for performing a single, disagreeable act.”

“Fair enough.”  A pause.  “You wanna know what angels are?”

This was enough to compel Drax’s arrentions away from the window.  “You do not have my permission to omit my title.”

With this stern glance, the two were looking eye-to-eye once again.  “I’m not the first that forgot your title, and I don’t think I’ll be the last.  You’ve got to get used to it.  Let’s forget that and continue--some cultures out there believe in angels.  They’re beautiful, but terrifying, and they have these great powers to do the will of some gods; they reward good and punish evil.  Sometimes a god sends ‘em to bring people to Heaven instead of Hell.  Other times, they get assigned to watch over ‘em and make sure they don’t screw up too bad or get in too much trouble like a guardian.  What do you think of that?”

Drax’s expression did not shift, did not waver once.  “You do not have my permission to omit my title.”

Grendelaar let out an exhalation, as he tapped against the apparatus, but soon enough let out a, “what do you think about that, Mr. the Destroyer?  You believe in angels?”

“I believe that my people were created by a fairly indifferent Dragon who resides on the surface of my planet’s moon, although I do not know which one; I wouldn’t believe she would care enough to send angels down, even to do her bidding.”  All statements of fact, as true as his eyes carried the bright blues of the daytime skies.  With that explanation, nothing more was said for several moments.  “Have we completed this dialogue?”

“I suppose,” Grendelaar said softly, turning his attention once more to the screen and apparatus.  “You did ok.  Next time, you gotta ask how I’m feeling too.  Mr. the Destroyer.”

This assessment, like much of Grendelaar’s manners about this, baffled Drax.  “Why?”

“I let you talk about what you think, so you gotta let me do it too.  It has to be two-way, Mr. the Destroyer.  You do that to make a connection with people you don't know.”  Although Niels looked away from Drax, the grey-man had yet to turn his attention away from Grendelaar’s sterner, stoic demeanor.  There seemed to be less passion in his tone, now, than there had been with his earlier lecture concerning Fox.

“How often will I have to talk like that?”

“A lot.  More than you’ll want to, Mr. the Destroyer, or people won’t trust you enough to listen to what you’ll really want to say.”  You needed to talk of… of unimportant things often, to make people listen to the important things you had to say?

“Seems terribly repetitive and counter-intuitive.”

“Pretty much.  But it’s just something you gotta do,” the dark-haired man admitted with a slow, forward roll of his shoulders.  And things remained silent for some time, until a vaguely purple-green-brown crewmember with tentacles approached Grendelaar and relieved him of his post.  Drax did not bother to recall this third man’s name.  Niels gave the pair a brief salute and a ‘good night’ (although it certainly was no longer night).  Drax’s ‘goodnight’ was a tad longer and involved more aggressive hand gestures than the other crewmember’s.

“You--Mr. the Destroyer.  If you see that Dragon’s palace, don’t actually jump out the airlock.  Don’t even hang near it.  We haven’t got a suit your size that’d allow you out there.  Not unless you don’t need to breathe oxygen to live--which I don’t want you to test!  You could be dead before you could blink twice, you could damage the airlock, and then we’d all be dead.  Got it?”  Drax nodded.  Shortly after, Niels took his leave.

As was normal, this other crewmember did not accost the Destroyer.  Therefore, the grey-man saw no need to break this silence and, instead, continued his search in perfect, external calm.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Campbell. I totally wrote this dude while thinking about Bruce Campbell and the kind of stuff I'd love to see that dude act in, that I haven't yet. If anybody told me Bruce Campbell was in space, captain of his own spacecraft, and leader of a motley crew of practical make-up effects, I'd so be there. I can't tell you how bummed I am that Bruce's one appearance in a live-action Marvel anything has just been in a Spider-Man film, passing a ticket off to Peter. Like, come on. Bruce Campbell.
> 
> Of course, it's going to be a while before Niels shows up again.
> 
> And next two chapters are about Drax's wife and kid. Because they'd be affected by his absence too. I'll be posting these next chapters next week again.


	4. When Day is Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtImwlQdflw)

In truth, Kamaria and Hovat were not looking up at the sky; within the time-span that Drax the Destroyer had completed his group-prayer and, then, begun his usual, nightly ruminations, his little daughter and wife were still at this merchants’ storage unit.  When Drax had shut-off his device, Hovat questioned a Xandarian ex-pat in this station to verify if she recalled how to record a video correctly.  The idea of hers was correct, but the exact button combination she suggested was incorrect.  Once that matter was settled, Hovat began filming her recollections of the titles in her tribe and their histories.  Such was a task given to her by the tribe’s elders.  All of the Elders, in fact, had asked their selected persons to perform this feat of recalling and recording their people’s history.  Never were they able to do such a thing before, especially while they feuded so with the Nova Empire.  Such wondrous things these Xandarians had!  And, they’d been told, most houses and starcrafts on their prime planet had devices such like this, as most homes on their planet had a hearth.  It was after the Destroyer’s wife added to what she could recall of the history of the Judge, little Kamaria begged to have the video replayed; with a small smile, Hovat acquiesced.

How odd she looked in this little window!  Like a ghost, perhaps, or a mirror with a living reflection.  It was while watching this tinier version of herself, many questions were produced in Hovat’s mind.  Did the bags under her eyes always stick out so?  Did she always sit thusly, while slightly fumbling with her hands?  It was a waste of energy that she hadn’t caught herself doing!  And her voice…

“Mother, your voice isn’t always so deep,” Kamaria assured, without looking away from her other mother beyond the pane.  Kamaria.  How she always knew what it was that she, her father, and so many others wished to say!  Where had she gotten such a skill from?  Surely not from her mother!

Stern was the mother’s admonishment.  Serious, but without the passion of a temper.  Yet, that smile of hers remained on her face.  “My dear, you did not ask my permission before prying into my mind.”  A jest.  Oftenest repeated, rarely as grave as the Mother delivered to her child.

This often gave Kamaria pause, before her voice would ring out its usual response.  “Forgive me, but you were thinking so loud,” her daughter said in such a deadpan manner.  What a wit had her Little Moon!  “I wish to hear what your other self says, to find if it remembers what you told it not too long ago.”

“My love, I’ve been informed by the ex-pats of this post that that is not how this device works,” Hovat corrected her Little One, with the gentlest smile that was owed from mother to child.

“Do you recall how it works, then, mother?”

Hovat paused and then, so slowly shook her head.  “It was beyond my experience of understanding.”

The segment itself, which was recorded only moments ago, concerned Jaina the Judge, born Ainjyl to Jerel the Judge, born Naalnish, and Edelmira the Executioner, born Wenona.  Hovat had never known Jaina and, when she asked her husband what he could recall of her so early in their marriage, Drax did not know much of her either; it was through asking her own mother, the elders, and her husband’s still-living antecedent, Dido the Destroyer, that Hovat became more qualified in discussing Jaina’s history.

“Jaina the Judge,” Hovat began recalling, “was born Ainjyl some hundred phases before the Nova Empire first reached our continent.  She was a good and fair judge, who worked in conjunction with Dagon the Destroyer, who was, by several thousand phases, her elder.  Their relationship was purely platonic, as were all of the relations Dagon the Destroyer had with anyone and anything beyond his duty as a Destroyer.  On her body were reported over 200 shapes and forms.  The meaning of some of her life, in spite of my research, has been lost to time and her funeral pyre.

As Ainjyl, she was said to be a dutiful, but wise-cracking daughter; she was enthusiastic with hunting and worked well with hunting parties, contributing both to crafting stratagems and using her speed and skill to seeing them carried out.  It was a surprise for many that Ainjyl had selected to become a Judge, rather than an Executioner, for it was said, even with her sense, that she had a bloodlust; truthfully, she did possess this bloodlust, and came to know of it in her adolescent journeying, but craved justice and maintaining it more.

It was she who had foresight enough to attempt a peaceable agreement with the first of the Nova Empire merchants who had come to our planet, but, when the merchants began selling frightening weaponry and addictive substances to our people, in addition to driving some of our flora and fauna to extinction, she and Dagon the Destroyer reached an agreement that their influence was toxic to our tribe and to our way of life.

Jaina the Judge went with Dagon the Destroyer, to propose altering the mission of the Destroyer for better fitting this task of protecting them from the harmful presence of the Nova Empire to our culture and our people.  Before this, the Destroyer simply existed to destroy enemies who wrongly destroyed, much like the Mutilator of the Tribe-that-lives-between-the-Forest-and-the-Mountains.  Unlike the Mutilator, however, the Destroyer did not simply maim or torture the guilty, but eliminated them completely.  It was she that fought by his side, when this proposal was put up for trial-by-combat and opposers struck at them to see that this amendment was rejected.  Within half a phase, all nay-sayers finally held their peace.  There is a mark on Jaina, close to her right rib, which commemorates this event.

When Dagon the Destroyer had relinquished his title to his successor, the Judge was apprehensive.  What was once a close-working relationship was shattered for the rest of Dagon the Destroyer’s days.  Regrettably, Dagon did not live to see his precedent and his former ally court and then become betrothed.  Their courtship did not start honorably.  

Drago the Destroyer was known for his lusty habits, and frequented whorehouses.  Our tribe does not criminalize the trade of the whore, but we do despise the attitude some wrongly acquire from frequently using their services.  Drago the Destroyer had solicited her to marry him, repeatedly, and, upon being refused so many times, offered her money.  As it was not her chosen profession, her love and time would not be sold.  What Jaina the Judge believed Drago the Destroyer desired in her was not an equal and partner, but power, as she had believed he’d taken up the position of Destroyer for this same purpose.  This judgement came from his poor first phases as Drago the Destroyer.  Drago the Destroyer had wished to avenge his antecedent, Dido the Destroyer, and her lost arm; so it was that he challenged the successors to her enemy’s title, the newly named Manaba the Mutilator and Meda the Mutilator.  To encourage their tribes to invest interest and support his hidden agenda, the Destroyer spoke with the council and asked to gamble land.  Both the Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Lake and the Tribe-that-lives-between-the-Forest-and-the-Mountains, you see, had been feuding for years and lost much land to each other.

It was during their combat that Drago the Destroyer blinded Meda the Mutilator, by gouging her eyes with his knives.  Meda the Mutilator was just out of her adolescence, as was her sister with whom she shared this duty.  Angered, Manaba declared eternal war upon the Destroyer and his ilk, and then, using strength advanced for one so young, stuck him through the chest with a spear, into a nearby tree, and enchanted it with her advanced mental magicks.  Drago the Destroyer found himself unable to move from that spot, so he was forced to remain there until he forfeited.

After that occurrence, Jaina the Judge declared that he was unfit for the title of Destroyer and motioned to the elders that he should be executed and replaced.  The Elders put this new proposal up to trial-by-combat, but there was only one who dared to fight for its repealing: Drago the Destroyer.  Neither’s allies wished to participate in this match, for they feared their enemy so much more.

So it was that the two met once more, in the center of our village and under the light of the moons, to do combat.  The battle lasted ten or twenty phases, for the two found themselves so evenly matched.  Although very exhausted, Jaina the Judge managed to pin Drago the Destroyer by standing on his back and then holding onto an arm and leg of his; having subdued him, finally, Jaina the Judge questioned her enemy, demanding to know why it was he had finally worn down.

As it was, in the span of those phases, Drago the Destroyer came to accept the error of his ways and, instead of begging for his life or continuing to stubbornly defend his title, asked for atonement before his execution.  This had led Jaina the Judge to question her position in this matter, enough so that she forfeited the match and amended her request, asking instead to assign atonement for the humbled Drago the Destroyer.

Humility was good sustenance for Drago the Destroyer’s new character.  While he was unable to pass a motion to rematch the Mutilators for the land that he’d lost, he did Jaina the Judge’s bidding and cleaned up what territory the tribe still possessed, kept away persons from the Nova Empire by using bloodshed when it was only necessary, and even helped build schools to educate our youth.  Only after accomplishing all of this did Jaina the Judge restart their courtship and the two were married in the same span of phases as their large battle.  There were two marks on her, both on her palms, to show when she was her husband’s enemy and then became his ally.

It was not through weakness of character that Jaina the Judge did not survive childbirth.  There was a spread of illness in our tribe, and some possessed immune systems that did not regenerate and adjust quickly enough.  It was through genetics that Jaina the Judge was weakened by this sickness, but, through the strength of her will, that she managed to bear her and her husband’s child to term.  Her son was named Attor, later called Drax the Destroyer.

And one of the greatest tragedies of Jaina the Judge’s premature loss was that her son barely knows of her or her accomplishments.”

When the clip ended, Hovat’s other self became frozen in that moment, her life ended with that last statement.  There was something...almost haunting in watching her other self, live and then die in the span of this video.  No matter, Hovat looked at Kamaria, who had lost interest in the middle of the video and left her mother’s lap.  Her little daughter was in the corner, chasing Lorcan.  How odd their little girl was!

“Kamaria, my Sweet,” Hovat addressed her child as she shut the machine off, and then stood to join her.  “Did my other self say everything I had, moments before?”

Without looking away from her prey, Kamaria quickly replied, “Yes, Mother, everything that I heard matched up.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hovat had thought her Little One had gotten too mature to cry, but, to her surprise, found herself embracing and comforting her daughter after they had taken her little creature to the forest and it left before she could bid it farewell.  The dirt under them was dry as a bone, as it had not rained in a couple of phases, so it was acceptable for them to sit on the ground.  This seemed to work best with Kamaria, since she liked to look eye-to-eye with whomever she was speaking with.

“Kamaria, my dear, his family has been waiting,” Hovat assured Kamaria, while kissing her forehead, rubbing her shoulders, and stroking her little bald head.  “They will be so pleased to see Lorcan!  And he will have many stories to tell them, now--”  The mournful howling and fidgety motions of her daughter became more fervent after these words of comfort were delivered.

“I want Drax the Destroyer,” Kamaria so suddenly screamed out, as she buried her face into her mother’s shoulder.  “I want Father to rush back home like Lorcan did!  I miss his odd thought-patterns, I miss hearing his voice at the right pitch, I miss how he usually brought home a rock for me!  What if I’m older when Father comes home?  What if he doesn’t come back until four-hundred phases have passed, and I’m too big for him to carry?  What if he leaves and never returns?  What if he forgets what you and I look like?”  Such thoughts that passed their child’s mind!  Rather than shrinking away and allowing herself to be consumed by her own worries, Hovat set herself aside and then held to her daughter tighter.

“My Love,” Hovat assured, between gritted teeth and swallowing tears of her own.  “Your Father will come back to us in sixteen phases.”

“How much time will pass for him?”  What a thought!  Could time pass differently for her husband than for them?  Before her husband had left them, the merchants from the Nova Empire had attempted to explain the time-table that the Destroyer and the other representatives were to live on (something called ‘days’), but it was beyond anything Hovat knew she could understand.

“I don’t know, my Love, I don’t know,” but she confessed so as she held her child tightly and Kamaria returned this closeness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was the night of a funeral pyre.  A former title-holder, known during her reign as Nadie the Necromancer but born Nata, had peaceably perished in her sleep.  Her two regrets were that the poor shape of her bones denied her a final battlefield victory and that her failing health denied her entry into the inevitable war against Ronan the Accuser and his sort.

“Did you believe she could actually talk with the dead, Mother?”  The two were in their home once more, preparing themselves for this night’s communal fire pit.  Preparations were simple, consisting solely of changing into darker colored shifts.  Kamaria was especially squirmy this day, providing ample challenge to her Mother as she would hunch forward and wrap a dark colored cloth about her babe’s small legs, waist, and torso.

“I believe it would be simpler for you and I if you only stood, without asking questions,” Hovat quipped, very abruptly wrapping her arms around the child’s chest and tickling her underarms.

“Mother!”  Kamaria’s laughter echoed throughout the small space contained in their ‘palace’.  Their ‘palace’ was a simple one, sweet in its lack of complexity.  There were but two large rooms in what resembled two huts put together, one which Hovat worked in and another the Family used for every other purpose.  It was in this general living space the three of them slept, ate, and spent time around their home’s single hearth.    In this very room, Hovat recalled Kamaria taking her first steps and speaking her first words as she too had done when she was Kamaria’s age and this home belonged to her own Mother.  “But I have to ask, I have to!”

Hovat stopped, if only to allow that delightful laughter to cease for a moment so that her child could speak again with that equally charming voice of hers. “Why must you ask?  What compels you so?”

Kamaria hummed and looked up, as she often did when she was thinking.  Her dear Mother took advantage of this distraction and stillness.  Deftly, her fingers and legs moved about the smaller body and completed wrapping it in the darker cloth.  “Because I like the sound of your voice and I want to hear what you say and what you think!”

A curious answer.  “Aren’t those the same, Moony?”

With a happy curl of her lips, the child’s head turned in a rapid and enthusiastic ‘no’.  “So do you believe it, Mother?  Do you believe in that and in mental magics, in people talking without moving their lips, in anything you and father have told me in stories?”  Oh, this question again.  How often she asked some variation of it!  Once, at least, every few phases.

“My answer is as it always has been.  I believe many of those stories contain things that are true, Love, as I’ve told you before,” Hovat so calmly put in, as she stood tall once more and held her hand out for Kamaria to get a hold of.

Abruptly, however, the little child’s expression fell.  “But you still don’t think a lot of those things are real.  You think people made those up.”

How strange Kammi could be, how unusual but too right.  Hovat stepped a little closer to her child and grabbed a hold of her tiny hand. “If it’s any consolation to you, Little Moon, I believe there was a time when those things were factual.  But we no longer live in those times, even though people like to imagine we do.”

“What happened, Mother?  Why are things different from what they used to be?”  Her expression remained concentrated, focused aground.

“They changed, my love,” Hovat answered with a swing of her arm, moving Kamaria’s and her own hand so playfully.  “As you and I shall.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was one of the first funeral gatherings each tribesperson had been invited to attend.  The Xandarians were not formally extended an invitation, but they had not been denied entry either.  So long as their behavior remained respectful, Hovat saw no need  for them to be removed.

The tribe’s very center was a grassless area lined with stones and firepits.  It was said that they were laid there by their tribe’s Patriarch and the other forebearers of their people.  In the very centre of this grassless area, there was a most often a huge fire blazing (even in daytime).  The Hearth of Hearths, as so many of Hovat’s tribespeople so reverently called it, was larger than some huts.  It only remain unlit when there was a vote or some sort of title dispute that would need to be determined on those grounds through trial-by-combat.  Otherwise, there was wood burning in it, but, when there had been death of one of their own, by any cause, their body was always added.  Corpses were added a little more often than could be deemed pleasant by other tribes, but such felt fairly commonplace to the Tribe-that-Lives-by-the-Lake.  With or without the pyre being lit for a funeral, people gathered nightly by these flames.  After especially excellent hunts, people of their tribe would roast their kills there and share the meat among those present in the area.  The meat to be eaten was never roasted over the Hearth of Hearths, out of reverence for their dead.  The other tribes had many questions about this tribal center, but they were here now.

Tribes mostly kept to their own and the few Xandarians with each other.  Only the children had enough courage (or perhaps ignorance) in them to break out of these preborn affiliations and mingle out of their people.  Otherwise, everyone acted as they would.  The men and women shared hunting stories to any that would gather near their succulently scented firepits to eat their kills and listen, the Xandarians began showing off little harmless tchotchkes to the children, and so on.

“Kamaria, your cousin Pamela is over there,” Hovat pointed to a girl just a little older than hers, the daughter of the current Judge and Executioner.  Truly, neither the Judge nor the Executioner were siblings to the Destroyer or his wife.  They were without such things.  Both were, instead, Hovat’s friends and their allies through bonds forged in wartime and as healthy a relation as possessing the same blood in their veins.  “Why don’t you go join her?”

But Kamaria kept her hand in her mother’s and even hid behind Hovat’s arm.  Softly, she claimed, “they are so mean about Father, Mother.”

How strange of her to state that.  “They have said nothing about Father, now.  Some of them stare, but I am certain it is only because we have just arrived here.”

“You don’t hear them, Mother,” Kamaria insisted, tugging her mother’s arm behind her.

“Kammi, that hurts a little,” Hovat interjected, pulling her arm a little more forward and prompting Kamaria to cease for a spell.  “Did they speak unfairly of Father to you in private, my love?  I should like to know that.”

“Not aloud, Mother,” Kammi so quietly answered.

“Oh, Kammi,” Hovat cooed so calmly as she turned to her child and got on one knee, so that their eyes met.  “You are only thinking things.”

“I am not, Mother,” her little Moon huffed so firmly for one so young.  “They are.  And so loudly, when they see us.  Oh, Mother.  I always thought you were so close to knowing, but you’ve never simply allowed yourself accept it.”

Hovat remained where she was, staring as she had been while knowing but not knowing what it was Kamaria was talking about.  “Is this about...what do you mean, my Love?”

“I’m not ready for everyone to hear it,” Kammi exclaimed, tugging her Mother’s arm so closely to her chest and turning them both aboutface.

As the pair of them turned, the Mother caught the slightest glimpse of cliques composed of their tribespeople.  Some snickered, while only the youngest bore the mettle to point and talk of their escape without regard for their volumes .  Hovat’s closest allies had chided her and Drax for this, for indulging their only daughter so much.  She would become spoilt, they claimed; she would not take orders from their Eldest and other figures of authority well.  Hovat’s sole defense for such parenting was in a reminder to examine her child’s parents, to recall how well they took to directives.

That, and Hovat found it terribly fascinating to watch what unpredictable courses of action her daughter ventured to take and to guess how she came to making such a decision; but the older woman still felt herself compelled to ask, “Kamaria, what is so urgent that you must take me away from the funeral pyre so suddenly?”

“This isn’t sudden,” little Moony whined slightly, trudging her mother further from their tribe’s geographic center and closer to the Forgotten Lake’s shore.  Only the light of the moons lit their way, beckoning them with their silvery faces and reflecting in shards across the dark-red waters.  “I’ve been waiting years to tell this to you, Mother, and I think I’ll burst if I hold it in any longer!  And, with Father gone, the tension I’ve felt for keeping this from you has only exacerbated!”

To a child, every little matter seemed to possess a vast amount of significance.  Children’s secrets were often tantamount to the deepest philosophies, although they’d come from the same little people who’d insist the world was bound to end if they did not enjoy dinner that night.  Hovat shrugged and followed her daughter’s lead.  There was no harm in listening to her child and, if only for a second, revering what sweet girlish secrets her Moon begged to make known.

Her little, round face didn’t turn back even once as they’d taken their leave and moved towards the Lake.  So, as mothers often did, Hovat admired the back of her child’s head.  How perfect and how tender it was in its curvature.  So like a moon, both parents had remarked when their child was but an infant.  Overnight, she became their little Moon; she was the bright, rotund little mass around which her parents had rearranged their schedules and determined their days.  How charming it was, to watch her adorable head bounce as they crossed the threshold and entered the Lake’s holy shore.

Much life was spent upon these sands.  It was by this shore that many would do their laundry, and it was a little beyond many would bathe and swim.  Their people would often start their days by collecting this water and boiling it, to cook with and to drink.  How appropriate it was, that the deity who had crafted this lake had made its waters the same color as their own lifeblood.  It was in this place, according to many histories, that Tama was converted by the Moondragon.  Some professed that the blood of Tlacelel’s first body that had permanently colored this shore’s waters.  Others claimed that it bore this color before his arrival and that some errant deities warred with the land that became their territory.  The gods had cut it in a way that the battle scar never healed or the land had Forgotten to treat it.  Few journeyed beyond the horizon, whereupon the heavens kissed this land’s wound, and so few knew and professed, truly, what its length was.  There were tales of Dagon the Destroyer, who left to fish in its waters and never returned, but none possessed an ending or shared some idea of the Lake’s limit that satisfied any listener.

“How auspicious this secret must be, that you must confide it to me in so sacred a place,” Hovat cooed with a cool tone of enthusiasm.

“Do not mock me, Mother,” Kamaria whined so prettily with an arrhythmic shake and bounce of her entirety.  “I wanted us to have privacy!”

There was something so immature, yet so incredibly adorable in this child’s huffing that Hovat couldn’t help but feel her head tilt back, almost as if it moved by its own accord, and allowed a laugh to pass through.  It was a little inexcusable.  The woman’s tapered fingers did come to her mouth, so as to create a blockade to trap the offending onomatopoeia, but their efforts were late and for naught.  “Oh, my Love, forgive me.  Speak what you must and I promise to rectify my offense by listening.”

So terribly offended, the child sniffed hard, puffed up her little cheeks, straightened her back, and held her breath for a second.  As her schoolmates were taught to properly exhale and inhale, for combat purposes, the breath was released through the mouth in a controlled, albeit presently hasty and noisy, manner.  Turning fully to face her parent, Kamaria looked her mother in the eye with a seriousness beyond her years and confessed, “I can actually read minds, Mother; I can hear your inner-voice.  Right now.  And, if I concentrated, I could find what you were thinking earlier.”

Hovat stared back into her child’s eyes, blank, with the same duration Kammi had held her own breath.  Then, almost like a tic, the corners of her mouth lifted into a sort of smile.  “Oh, Kammi, this is much effort to spend on our little joke.  Far more than necessary.”

“I’m not joking now, Mother!”  With a brusque pull of her little hand, Kamara brought both arms to her chest and crossed them.  “I can tell you what you’re thinking!”

“What am I thinking now, Love?”

“Oh Mother, no, I want something more challenging,” Kamaria pouted with a vigorous shake of her head.  “Even if I did not possess my gifts, I would know you’re having a hard time taking me seriously because I am cute.”

Hovat blinked twice, a little ashamed of her own transparency, and then remarked, “You had told me that you can repeat what I’d thought earlier.  This morning, then.  What was I thinking?”

“Can you think on what you did and what you were thinking? Not the whole thing, maybe, just start it off,” Kamaria asked as she passionately held her arms to her sides and shut her own eyes.  “It’d make it easier to find if it was in the forefront of your mind and I wouldn’t need to search your entire mind.”

Hovat tilted her head, but obeyed all the same.  The pair of them had spent the night sleeping on the ground of their home, as they always did.  Of the two--

“You awoke first.  But you didn’t want to leave the house to bathe and wash our dirtied clothes and dishes because you didn’t want to leave me home alone,” Kamaria cut in, stopping only to take a loud, long breath.  “That, and you were lonesome because you missed Father and you knew, if you did go out and do chores, you’d run into other people who wouldn’t ask you how Father was because you know, as I, that they don’t care for him very much and it hurts.  So you cleaned up at home, organized the fruit you’d gotten paid with, mentally rehearsed what you would tell the dis-patch about Jaina the Judge and what you’d tell Father, and then you sharpened your knives until I woke.”

Hovat looked on, but said nothing.

“You like the sound that your knives make on the whetstone.  It soothes you, how measured it is.  How loud it starts off, then how it quiets and lengthens as the blade tapers off.”

Hovat remained, standing as she had been and saying nothing.

Kamaria innocently opened up an eye gauging her parent’s reaction.  “Mother.  Did you wish for me to continue?”

Curious, Hovat blinked but nodded.

And so Kamaria laid out every act her Mother had done that morning and every thought she’d had while performing them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was just the pair of them, sitting in front of the hearth of their home.  Their home became terribly cold at night, so they would always keep their hearth going and sleep in front of it.  Since Drax had left, less conversations took place.  Hovat no longer saw no point in it now, with her child that always pried into her head, despite her continual requests that she ask first.

Why had Kamaria concealed this from her own father?  In her own words, it was because her Father was too stubborn to believe or comprehend it.  Hovat’s mind was more amenable, according to Kamaria.  Perhaps she had been right.

It was on this night, while serving up dinner for her child (a simple meat stew), Hovat wondered when she became the reliable one.  How long ago was it that she was sitting where Kamaria was, eating with her own mother?  When did she grow from an unwrinkled form of Kamaria’s size into something like that sad woman in that video she had watched?  Wasn’t there supposed to be some sign she should have seen way back when, one that told her that she was no longer going to be a child, but a standard of perfection, a fount of information, and a balancer of her life and the lives of many others?

“Mother, are you afraid,” Kamaria remarked, while spooning up her meat and chewing it so precisely.

Hovat blinked away her reveries, until she was present with her child again.  “What have I to be afraid of?”  She couldn’t be afraid; she was the mother, it was Kamaria that was supposed to be--

“Mother, there’s nothing wrong with being afraid.  I’m scared, you’re scared.  We both know it, so why hide it?”

Hovat’s expression fell.

“Oh, Mother...I--”

“You had forgotten, Little Moon,” the tone and expression were gracious, forgiving.  As was needed.

“Mother, you’re upset.  Why don’t you say you’re upset?  You don’t act like this with your friends.”

It was true.  With her closest friends, Hovat was loud, brash, violent; she was like a young woman again, a fearsome warrior who lived to satisfy her own wants.  But, now, her friends were not here.

“Little Moon.  It would be exhausting to always act like that.  Everything possesses its proper time and place.  Now, with you, I wish for this to be a time and place for solace.”  Her daughter blinked, but then nodded; she seemed appeased by--

“I am appeased, Mother.”  Right.  She was appeased.  For the rest of the night, the two ate and then slept in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is through the POV of Kamaria, who, in this story, is kind of a combination of the awesome Heather Douglas and the also-awesome Cammi (from Drax's excellent " Earthfall" miniseries). It will have more backstory for Drax and his wife.
> 
> I'll be posting it tomorrow evening.


	5. Fascinating Rhythm, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://youtube.com/watch?v=g21XrVpqbgY)

Truth be told, Kamaria already wished she’d never told Mother about her mental capabilities.  Especially now, as they slept together by the hearth, on the dirt floor and between some old furs.  Mother did not snuggle as closely to her, unless it was to return a tight embrace from her.  

Before, it had always been Mother, who had embraced hard without needing prompting.  Father always slept a little farther from them, unless Mother would summon him to sleep closer and demonstrate holding their daughter (that was, unless, he had a very hard day, destroying things); always, he imitated the motion.  They’d sleep with their arms would be around their child and their hands intertwined in each others’.  They would not break away, until the sleep cycle was completed, and they needed to break fast and work.  Mother seemed a little less generous of herself now, and her thoughts a little more scattered and scared.  Perhaps her Little Moon should have waited until Father returned, to tell her, so that, at least, Mother would have had someone else in the house to deal with.  Mother did not seem aware of how much she relied on Father.  Father was the same.

Mother and Father both loved her, she knew, from the first phase of her life; they also, at times, felt burdened by her.  There was no reason to begrudge them for this, they were not perfect and, without this imperfection, they would not be her parents.

Kamaria saw much with her abilities, which she’d discovered from an early age and believed everyone possessed.  It wasn’t until hearing of Pax the Peacemaker and her exemplary mental abilities that Kamaria realized only a few reached this potential.  Her parents surely never would.  Only she, in this household, saw into minds and saw all things as they truly were.

One of Kamaria’s favorite things to do was to ask her parents to tell the same story, to listen also to their internal retellings, and piece them together, to attempt to find the entirety of the truth of their story.  Because, as Kamaria knew, people held many things to be true and only some of them were so.

Father always began his retellings with Grandfather, and Kamaria always liked this because his thoughts on Grandfather were fascinating.  Always, in his and Mother’s stories, much detail was omitted.  People were only names and actions, and everything they did was on a featureless plane of being.  Their thoughts, as they told their stories, filled these holes sufficiently.

Grandfather was not handsome, but Mother had believed he was.  Kamaria’s Father might have feared Grandfather, but, to Drax the Destroyer and many in their tribe, to fear was to respect.  Grandfather was tall (but not as a tree, as Father always thought) with eyes that burned like twin suns.  His natural complexion was brownish and crackled-looking, like a mud-pie left out for too long, but he was very proud of his accomplishments and bore so many marks that he appeared red.  Drax the Destroyer could only recall a few of his father’s marks and what they meant.  On Grandfather’s belly, there was a fetus, carved in when his wife had died and left him with a child.  This scar showed that he now took on the role of father and mother to his only son.  Drago the Destroyer spoke rarely of his missing wife.  Mother suspected it was because he’d resented her, while Father never thought to question it.  His knuckles were worn, because, although they had healed quickly, as always, Drago would always punch with such focused ferocity that it would always retear his healed skin.  Mother felt that Drago was not a good father, but Father felt otherwise.  Both were true.  When Drax the Destroyer was still Attor, and he was very little, he had told his father that he had great desire to become like him.  Like their people were prone to do, especially in these sorts of histories, Drago took his young child’s claim very seriously, perhaps more than intended.  The very next day, Attor was removed from school, one of the very many that Drago built as penance and on the judgement of his wife, and Attor would remain by his father’s side, to learn how to destroy first-hand; Father always hated schooling, and preferred hands-on learning, so he bore no qualm over this.  Mother worried about it; externally, she would shrug and say it was for the best.  Internally, her thoughts often crafted scenarios in which her husband had remained in school.  Perhaps Drax the Destroyer would not despise the Xandarians as much, or perhaps he would have had more friends and, in turn, their family more allies.  But, these were things of nought.

Drago the Destroyer and his son did not have a formal home; they wildly roamed the woods and camped out.  Some days, there would be no food caught.  This was not because they were incapable of hunting or gathering, but it was for discipline.  Their kind was gifted with augmented cellular regeneration, and some phases spent fasting were to utilize this ability and hone it.  Rarely would their sleep cycles be enacted, for this same purpose.  Many days would go by, when they would not talk, and Father enjoyed this greatly.  When they did speak, it was often of the history of the Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Lake.  Their dialogue was like a recitation.  Drago would talk of the history, and Father was to repeat it; when it was not perfectly repeated, the recitation began again.  The two would hunt together, train to fight together, reclaim territory, and ward away Xandarian colonies.  Never once did Father doubt that Drago the Destroyer relished his company, as he did.  There were few instances when they’d return to the Tribe-that-lives-by-the-Lake.  Such regular instances were when they were summoned, either when the titles were to decide a ruling through combat or if an adolescent dared to challenge the Destroyer for his title.  Another such regular instance was when Drago the Destroyer wished to have an event in the day commemorated; so, he would see his oldest friend, perhaps his only one, called Hex the Hacker, and ask her to put it into him.

Grandmother Hex had a face that Kamaria knew very well; unlike Grandfather, Hex still lived and enjoyed her retirement in their tribe.  Her face was wrinkled and soft, like old fruit, and her eyes were dull, but learned.  Back in Mother’s memories, Grandmother was so very beautiful, and Hovat did not believe that she looked a thing like her.  Father didn’t remember what Grandmother looked like, back then; in fact, Father didn’t remember much of this time, beyond living mostly lawless and free, and did not even remember when he’d first met Mother.

Mother remembered it clearly.  Father was smaller, a more compact version of himself; he was serious, as always.  Mother recalled watching him, as he polished knives as large as his childish forearms and waited for Drago the Destroyer by the door of Grandmother’s carving parlor.  Some markings were complex and required many phases--to carve in, to add the pigment, to add the chemicals that would stop this scar from healing and elevate it in a manner of keloid scarring.  Regardless of the span required, Father would remain, never looking up from his knives.  Mother did not recall what she looked like, then, but she’d always thought he’d never looked because she wasn’t beautiful, if she could not draw the eyes of this simple boy away from his weaponry; she was wrong.  Truthfully, Father would see her with his peripheral vision, but he, who had learned to debone foes at this age, found himself unsure of what to do when he looked at this girl.  Never because she wasn’t very pretty, with her twinkling eyes and gentle-looking lips.  It was simply because the only time he ever spoke with anyone was with his Father’s recitations, and it was out of sheer embarrassment that Drax the Destroyer had locked this memory away from himself.  It was out of shame that Mother chose to keep this memory, so that she could look on it when she was feeling sad and marvel at how Father and her relationship had improved.

After Drago the Destroyer had been killed,  Drax the Destroyer, still called Attor, spent many phases in the basement of the Hacker.  The basement was dank, dark, and dirty.  (Nowadays, it was cleaner and arranged differently.)  One needed to bring a candle into it, for any part of the place to be revealed.  It was, therefore, by Kamaria’s standard, acceptable that neither Mother nor Father remembered this place’s appearance well.  The place was to store chemicals, in huge boxes carved from stone and wood, for the hacking rituals.  Mother and Grandmother had never disclosed this to Father, but this undignified spot, on the dirt floor of their basement, was intended to be his final resting place.  Grandmother simply took him from the battlefield as a favor to her dearest friend, to give her oldest friend’s son a private place to die.  This was the sacred place, where their memories lined up.  In both of their stories, their recollection was the same.  Mother, when she was Kairavi, sometimes called Ovette, would descend the stairs and feed Father, both partaking in their first kisses; she’d always hoped he’d look like his father when he was older, and he never minded being told this.  They were chaste kisses, sustaining.  She would, as she always did, talk gently to him, and he did not have strength to respond for many phases upon phases.  When his strength came back, the first words that were shared were those of an apologetic thanks.  Mother responded, simply with a kiss; finally, she felt as brave and beautiful, as she’d always been.  Grandmother was furious with her Kairavi, but Father never learned this, and Grandmother’s anger was silent; often, it was communicated with burning glances.  Mother did not speak with her regularly for many phases, and neither she nor Father were not forgiven by Grandmother until Mother became Hovat the Hacker.

Father and Mother’s first conversations were very one-sided.  Mother would talk at length about everything, and Father would always listen.  Then, he would ask if she wished him to repeat all that she said.  Mother would simply laugh.  It was many phases later, when she gave him permission to tune out what she said.  Although it took Father many phases to comprehend the directive given to him, he would do so, as he ascertained that it would expend less energy; he would tell Mother that he enjoyed doing this, tuning out what she’d say and hearing only her voice, but not paying mind to the content.  Mother would promise to tell him when it was important, when he could not zone out, and he would nod.

Avenging Drago the Destroyer did not become a topic of their conversation, until Mother’s Father had been killed.  The Hacker, although revered, was privy to many secrets from the Tribe-that-lived-by-the-Lake, and anyone that would take her as their betrothed would be looked on suspiciously.  Patwin had been lucky; he was always humble and sweet, although he possessed less muscle-mass than most men, both titled and untitled, and he was never thought to have a hidden agenda in marrying Hex the Hacker.  Mother did not know, because she did not think herself a naturally kind person, but she had much of his sweetness.  Patwin had been murdered in an undignified fashion, as he was relieving his bladder in the forest and had been caught without his weapons.  

Mother finally knew what it was to hate with everything that she was, and the object of her hatred was Daedelus the Destroyer, who had murdered Drago the Destroyer and Patwin.  Mother let her anger towards Daedelus the Destroyer become known, after telling Father that this was something important that he could not tune out.  It was then that Mother carved Father’s first scar into his abdominal region, with two purposes.  First, to commemorate a chain of bones that his father had presented to him as a gift.  A memory of Grandfather’s generosity.  Second, to create a blood oath between them and state that they were united, in heart and soul, for this purpose of murdering Daedelus the Destroyer.

Mother was still very pretty and terrifying, more than she thought of herself now; did she know this?  Kamaria held onto her mother closer and, satisfied by her mental exercise, shut her eyes and commenced her sleep-cycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some weeks on this site, I feel like I've learned a little bit more about posting multi-chapter stories on the internet and I've come to the conclusion that this rather slow-paced story can't be posted with a chapter-a-week sort of schedule. 
> 
> I have all 18 chapters of this written already, and didn't post all of it at once. This was in case I'd get some sort of criticism about the direction this story is taking, so that I could go in and edit my chapters with respect to criticism this story could receive. Since I haven't gotten any sort of objection about the direction that this story's taking, I think I am just going to post a chapter every evening or other evening until I've put up the full 18 chapters.
> 
> And then, I might take a break from this story and contemplate what direction I want to take this story into.
> 
> I do have plans for the rest of this story, and, because I like writing this, I think I will just keep on with that. I will, however, try to write the next two parts with a quicker pace.
> 
> Anyway, next few chapters take place back on the ship.


	6. How Insensitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fw3JASHJ3k)

Drax the Destroyer was still looking out that window, even after their craft had cleared the moon; he neither knew if that was the last moon of his planet that they’d see, nor if they’d seen all of their moons.  Things had become silent.  Save for the hum of the machinery.  The snoring of sleeping crew (especially the one handling the steering mechanisms) and representatives.  The...faint voice of Fox Valor.

Drax had thought it highly unusual that a man like Valor was up at this time, especially as his kind did not keep to odd hours; as he was wont to do, he followed the voice, which echoed through the halls, with a lighter step than one would expect from a person his size, and found himself just outside the door of the communication device’s quarters.  How loudly Fox spoke!

Let it be known here that Drax the Destroyer was not an idiot, though he knew himself to be odd-thinking, and he never would be an idiot.  Although his ability to speak Xandarian was limited, as is the case with second languages one learns, his comprehension for understanding it, through listening, was excellent.

This was, more or less, what he heard Fox remark:

“--these assholes.  The best thing is that there are a lot of whores, and they’re not illegal.  It’s like a legitimate job, here.  In fact, all of the women are whores, with their clothes cut to show off the cleavage and stomach and shit.  They say it’s for ventilation and comfort and, let me tell you, it definitely makes me let out some hot air and get comfortable.  If you know what I mean.  Even if they’re all bald, some of them are really hot.  Like, there’s this lady here, Manaba.  Crazy, talks weird, and she’s always angry, but I’d do her.

They all put on war-paint all the time.  Even the moldy oldie.  She’s kinda hot too.  Definitely a milf.  Except for the big scary guy.  His war-paint’s like carved into him.  Yeah.  Why would anyone do something like that to themselves?

Worst part’s that everyone’s so stupid.  Dumber than dogs.  I have to take a shitton of aspirin to tolerate dealing with these guys.  We had to teach them to speak some form of Xandarian for like a year, and only one of these four guys really understood it. She’s cool; she’s normal.  Haven’t yet, but I’d do it with her too.  This shitshow’s too broke to’ve gotten translator implants, but I woulda paid out of pocket to save us all the headaches if I could’ve.  Me and Niels never told the other assholes we got on this ship that there’s different dialects spoken on Xandar and the one they were taught is the oldest, dumbest-sounding one--”

Drax the Destroyer had heard enough; pushing with all of his weight and leading with his right shoulder, he broke down the metal barrier that had sealed Fox in his hiding place.  The thrashing that was given to Mr. Valor felt delightful, and brought the Destroyer much joy and laughter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The breaking-fast bay was dully metallic and small, much like the rest of the ship.  At the beginning of this cycle, however, things were arranged differently than usual.  All of the chairs had been repositioned into a circle, around a table.  Atop this table were two chairs.  In one such chair sat the bloodied, still breathing body of Fox Valor, tied up by some rope.  In the chair behind him sat Drax, who was large, livid, and gleeful in a way that only he and their planet’s most fearsome warriors would be.

When the other representatives entered the dining hall, they did not appear as pleased as he.

“Drax, what the hell?!!”  Adahy ran up to Fox, speaking only in her Xandarian dialect.

Drax the Destroyer would not return her words in that same language; now, he wanted only to speak in his native tongue: “Adahy, you do not have my permission to state my name without my title.  And you will not step further; you will sit, as will everyone else.”

Manaba, as usual, looked leery and angry, and climbed on the table, while pulling out her spiked, metallic knuckles.  “Destroyer, why have you wrongly mutil--”

“I have not wrongly acted, and you will all know that this is true.  Sit and listen.”

The Peacemaker said nothing, but her expression...did not look like she had the most confidence in Drax or his actions.  Nonetheless, everyone was seated around these two tables.  The three women sat side-by-side, with Manaba leftmost (from Drax’s position), Pax in the middle, and Adahy to the right.  Much like their prayer square.  Although things were unplanned with their kind, always they seemed to fall into these odd patterns.  With eyes narrowed and a growling voice, the Destroyer gave his directives to Valor.

“You will tell everyone everything that you disclosed on the communication device.”

Fox Valor looked in fear, which was good, but it was not conducive now.

Again, in the same tone, Drax the Destroyer repeated himself.  But slower, and louder.  Because Fox probably didn’t hear it the first time.  “You will...tell everyone...everything...that you disclosed...on the...communication device!”

With a sniff, and a sigh, Fox finally obeyed, but not exactly.  “I said you’re all hot.”

For that, the Destroyer landed another fist in his jaw.  Pax held both hands out, to stop the beating and stop the women from arising to Valor’s defense; then, she spoke in her slow Xandarian dialect.  “Destroyer, I trust that you have a point to this.  What specifically do you wish for Fox to share with us?”

Attempting to breathe in a measured manner, so that he did not snap angrily and wrongfully at the Peacemaker, Drax attempted to regain control of himself and slowly reply, in his same dialect.  “He had spoken untruths about us and a truth; he said that you are all whores, we possess the intelligence of dogs, that we are holes of ass, and that we were all taught a dialect of Xandarian that is dumb.  We all sound dumb.”

Only Adahy seemed terribly offended, whereas Manaba calmly seethed, already cursing that this man lied about her profession.  Their reactions, however, were less important than the Peacemaker’s, for it was the Peacemaker who would ultimately decide what they would do next.

“Destroyer.  Although offensive, the lies should not matter.  You know that they are untruthful.  They are nothing to us.  Which is the one harmful truth that you wished for us to know?”

Growling, Drax struggled to maintain some composure; he really, really wanted to just beat this individual more, until more of his blood came out.  Instead, words came from Valor’s mouth.  “The thing...about...the...dialects.”

Pax blinked twice, and then asked, “There are different dialects on Xandar?”

Valor groaned, and the Destroyer returned this disrespect with a headbutt.  And another.  And another--

Pax did not seem to appreciate this.  “Destroyer!”

Drax stopped.

Pax sighed, and then asked, “Why is it that we were taught the...dumb dialect?”

Fox responded, a little woozily but with less disrespect for the Peacemaker, “It’s...it’s the easiest to teach.  We thought you guys couldn’t handle the modern dialect--”

“Because we are not smart,” Drax cut, as he administered another headbutt.

In spite of knowing this truth, Pax intervened.  “Destroyer!  Contain your rage!”

“No,” Drax replied, without hesitation.  “I will not!  I will not be insulted!  I will not be passive, and accept that we were taught a dialect that makes us sound dumb because they believe we are dumb!”

Pax, somehow, remained calm and kept her tone even.  “Destroyer, please.  He said that we were not taught the modern dialect because we could not handle it, not that we are dumb.  We only had a year to learn a language, so they chose this in respect to what we could handle.  Is a fish dumb for being unable to fly?”

“We are not fish.  And we are not trying to fly.”

“But, we are limited in our capabilities.  Like fish.”

“No.  No.  We are not like fish.  We do not have scales--”

“Drago the Destroyer,” Pax mistakenly addressed, but her soucient tone almost made it forgivable.  “Consider Attor.  Consider what this would tell him about the duty of the Destroyer.  What would he think, to see you speak with me like this?  With such disrespect?  To look at you, so enraged that you cannot think straight?”

The Destroyer closed his eyes, conflicted.  Was she to be corrected, or should the content of her words simply be paid attention to?  In the end, he ruled, “He would...still fear and admire, but he would also see foolishness in the Destroyer’s actions.  As he had with much of his father’s campaign as Destroyer, prior to doing combat with the woman that became his wife and a little after this woman had perished.”

“What is it that you would like your son to see you do, and to imitate?”  So calm and so sure was her voice, when his eyes were closed.  Less of her nervousness was seen, as she tried to speak this Xandarian dialect.

A pause.  Truthfully, Drax didn’t know, but words found him and he spat them out.  “I would...like to be with him...to teach him, in private, the proper action to take.”

Calmly, the Peacemaker asked, “What is the proper action to take?  You cannot sequester yourself, now.  You must act, in full view of your peers.  You must act now.”  It didn’t sound like commanding, so much as it sounded like an invocation of his spirit.  What was it that his spirit wished to do, when compelled by the powerful tone of the Peacemaker?

“I wish,” a pause.  Then, “I would wish for my son...to know that he is not dumb.  Although it is impossible for him to undo what has been done, this long insult that has been paid...he must demand reparations.”

“And is destruction the only reparation that can be paid?”

A sniff.  And, then...another headbutt.  “Yes.”  It was, then, that Drax the Destroyer felt arms coming from behind him, grabbing him.  His eyes forced themselves opened, only to see the Mutilator’s blue arms, holding his larger arms back in a manner that would be recognized on Terra as a “Nelson Hold” (although only a few on this ship knew that, and certainly not a soul in this room at this very moment).  This time, she did not dig into his skin.  Holding his feet were the brown-green hands of Adahy.  The Destroyer had two choices: lash out at the other representatives and render their relationship forever irreparable, or remain where he was.  Finding the first inconducive to their mission, the latter was chosen.

Pax turned her attention away from Drax, and to Fox.  “Valor.  You understand that although you and your allies were well-intentioned, you may have partially compromised our mission.  Nova Prime may not take us seriously when we see her.”

Swallowing hard, Fox shook his head and claimed, “I….look, I wasn’t the only one making that decision…”

“But, you were a part of the decision-making process.  So, you are partially responsible.  And, then, you,alone, have offended many of us,” Pax so calmly determined.

Seeing no flaw in that logic, Valor had to concede with a reluctant nod of the head.

“Excellent,” the Peacemaker remarked.  “Our relationship with you, and, to a lesser degree, the other Xandarians, is damaged.  What will you do to repair it, on behalf of yourself and your people?”

Fox groaned, and looked to the sides with such disrespectful glances.  However, the three youngers did not move from their spot, out of reverence for Pax.  “I...I don’t know.  Whaddya want from me?”

“What you can give to us is respect.  From this point, you will look us in the eye, you will not groan, you will not put your hand to your face, and you will watch the amount of that weird-smelling liquid which you often drink.”

“C’mon, not that liquid-stu--”

“You seem even more disrespectful after you’ve had much to drink,” Pax cut in, as if Fox had never once interrupted her.  “You will restrict your drinking to a single glass a day.  A normal glass, not a large one.  If you do not follow these terms, I will permit the Destroyer and the Mutilator to act according to their missions.”

Both leered at Fox, to indicate that they were not only ready, but enthusiastic, to act in accordance with the Peacemaker’s decision; namely, when he would fail.

“Yeah.  Alright.  Fine,” Fox accepted the terms, somehow, without hint of irony to his tone.

“Then we are understood,” Pax proudly proclaimed, with both hands up and open.  “Now, we must clean up this mess and break our fasts.”  They did so.  It was calm.


	7. I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://youtube.com/watch?v=jlH_XFuf3wU)

After breaking fast, the Destroyer asked the Peacemaker if they could talk in private; when the two arrived to the privacy of the Peacemaker’s temporary chambers, Drax informed her that he could disclose to her every offensive thing that Fox said exactly.  This did not appear to appease Pax, oddly enough; instead, she simply shook her head.  The two were positioned as they always were: with Pax on the bed and Drax sitting, back straight and legs crossed.  Their eye-contact was unwavering.

In spite of Pax’s show of displeasement, Drax began to recite Fox’s offensive message perfectly, imitating the intonations as well, in his dialect, “--these assholes.  The best thing is that there are a lot of whores, and they’re not illegal.  It’s like a legitim--”

“Drago the Destroyer,” Pax so, so calmly cut it, also in his native dialect, “I am uninterested in what it was that Fox had to say.  He will pay reparations, or he will endure the consequences.  That has been decided.”

“I am not Drago the Destroyer,” Drax rather curtly replied, very quickly regretting it and looking on his outburst with disgust.  “I...I am his son, I am his successor.  I was called Attor, but now, the shape of my life altered and revealed to me who I truly am; in respect to being reshaped, I am now Drax the Destroyer.”

Pax calmly “What does this name mean, Drax?”

“It means that I am the Destroyer, and I destroy things.”  Simple answer.  Drax shook his head, not knowing why it was asked.

“No, I mean the name ‘Drax’.  What does this name mean?  It does not exist in any of the languages that I have heard on our planet or in the woods, wherein I am able to hear the knowledge of other planets.”  Such a forest existed on their planet?

“Trees do not talk, I don’t think such a forest exists,” Drax insisted, crossing his arms.

“Some trees are able to, but it is not through the trees that I find this knowledge; I find it in the silence and stillness, as I sit, in among these trees.”  More monkish mysticism.

“Silence does not produce noise, how do you hear this?”  The arms did not lower, but Pax placed her her hands on them.

“I do not hear it with my ears, it comes to my mind.  When adolescents journey out of their tribes, they often arrive to this forest and learn their purpose and what they wish to call themselves.  You did not ever complete this adolescent journey, did you?”  Drax broke away eye-contact, suddenly finding it more favorable to look at the floor than in this Elder’s eyes.  Instead of turning away, Pax began very gently moving her hand back and forth on his arms.  It was...oddly soothing.  “Why did you never journey out of your Tribe?”

“I did.  Often.  As a child, with my father.  To destroy things.”

“What about when you were an adolescent?”  The contact remained, unwavering.

After a pause and a look of disgust, the Destroyer shook his head and gave in, “I assumed the title of Destroyer, before I reached adolescence.  The woman who became my wife.  As children, she and I planned the demise of Daedelus the Destroyer, who had murdered my father and tried to murder me.  While I was regaining my strength, she would listen to him, as he told her mother, Hex the Hacker,  a great manner of things; Hovat, before she became who she is, would, then, tell me everything that had been disclosed.  When I was well, I approached the Elders of my tribe, who thought me long dead, and challenged Daedelus for the title of Destroyer.  I knew all of his weak points, and took him out before the end of the phase; I, then, immediately took the title and became Drax the Destroyer.”  A pause.  “So, unless it was to destroy things, I did not journey out often.”

“You did not journey out formally, as an adolescent,” Pax the Peacemaker repeated pithily, in her own words, so respectfully.  To show that this was truth, Drax nodded and restored eye-contact.  “What of the name ‘Drax’?  Am I to understand that this was a name you had...invented?”

“Partly in respect to my father and partly to you,” Drax admitted, in a rather long and reluctant ‘yes’.  This, oddly, looked like it appeased Pax, who nodded and beamed.  Her eyes became like gibbouses, as the old one’s head up and laughed a little.  “I did not disclose a joke to you.”

“I did not know you held me to such esteem,” Pax smiled and remarked with very resplendent teeth.  “Prior to our tribes coalescing, I only knew you through stories of your deeds; I had heard that, as a child, you laughed viciously as you tore through Xandarian colonists and reclaimed land in the name of your tribe.  When older, you did the same.  This is what many warriors of our land do. That is all that I knew of you; I did not know you had a child and a wife, or that you respected me so.”

“I had only known you through my father’s histories,” Drax admitted, finding it hard to remain so stoic with such...forgiveness and mercy being thrown his way.  “I had heard how you held your title for the longest period of anyone that possesses a title on our planet, and how nobody will ever challenge you for it; I had heard that you were merciless in combat, and that you fought for more than just your tribe.  You were, in a way, a lawless wanderer.”

“I was not lawless,” Pax corrected, canting her head to her side, but maintaining her smile.  Both of her hands were now placed on Drax’s arms.  “I operated by my own law, by my own ruling of what was right--”

“I know,” Drax insisted, once again curtly, but lowering his arms.

“My own law, in respect to the situation at hand,” Pax continued, as if she was not interrupted.  “Sometimes I would fight, and, others, I would simply talk.  In order to do this,  I search myself and know myself.  There are times when I lose idea of the woman I truly am, so I search for myself again.”

“What of moments where there isn’t time,” Drax had to ask, as his arms became uncrossed, and put to his sides, “or when you are faced with a decision that must be made immediately?  What if you are overtaken by your spirit?”

“There is nothing wrong with being overtaken by one’s spirit,” Pax responded, so eloquently, as her hands were now on his shoulders.  “So long as you maintain yourself with it.”

Drax could not immediately think of how to respond to this properly, but a word came out anyway, “how?”

“Who are you, Drax, aside from being the Destroyer?  What would you be, if you were not the Destroyer?”  Pax commenced again with the soothing motions on his shoulders, but it didn’t immediately take effect this time.

Instead, Drax gave a look.  “That does not answer my question--”

“What are you?”

“I do not know who I am, unless I am destroying things.”  Said without hesitation.

“What else do you greatly enjoy being, then?”  The Destroyer had to close his eyes, to focus simply on the content of her words.

After a careful pause, Drax responded, “I like to hunt.  And I like to be with my family.”

“Which is it that makes you happiest?  It can’t be destroying.  That is your mission, as it had been the mission of others in the past.  It is not unique.  It is not what truly makes you who you are, just what you do.  Having something outside of your mission is good and healthy.”  The motions were easier to appreciate with closed eyes, as were Pax’s words.

“I...like being with my family.  Above all things.  I like and I dislike parts, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I like providing for them, speaking with them, and simply sitting in the same room as them.  I respect my wife greatly, and I am pleased when I see how our child is growing into whoever she will become.”

“Then, when you must act, remember that you are a husband and a father.  Above all other things,” Pax replied, Drax almost hearing her smile.  No.  Wait.  Was such a thing possible?  How could one hear a smile?  “Open your eyes, Drax the Destroyer.”  Drax did so.

With the eye-contact restored, Pax’s hands were removed from his shoulders and the two simply looked at one another.  “Was there something else?”

“No, Peacemaker,” Drax began, and, then, he did remember, “Oh.  Wait.  Yes.  Why is it that you want Kamaria to be schooled with the monks of your tribe?”

“Because she is a good child, and, from what I hear you speak of her, she has great potential that we would like to see her reach,” the Peacemaker insisted.  “Why is it that you do not wish for her to be schooled with the monks?”

“I was not formally schooled,” Drax replied.  “Hovat was, but we were both taught our parents’ trades and enjoyed them enough to pursue them.”

“Do you wish this for Kamaria, then,” Pax asked, without a look of judgement.

After careful consideration, Drax responded, “I wish for Kamaria to choose what she will, when she is ready and able.  Often, she goes a little too far.  She scrapes her knees often, she trips often.  When she was younger, she nearly drowned in the lake.  I had to go in and save her, then teach her to swim.”  Drax pointed to the mark on his left arm, which commemorated this occurrence.  “This is here to remind me of that day.”

“And to remind yourself to mind her,” Pax so generously added, to which the Destroyer nodded.  “You are afraid that, one day, she will go out somewhere, where you will not be able to get her back.  You are afraid of losing her.”  With some hesitation, the Destroyer nodded again.

“What if she journeyed out,” Pax queried, as assuredly.  “and she became more of herself?  What would this woman be?”

The response was simple.  “She would be my daughter, but taller; she would have my features, her mother’s features, and her own features.  I would wish for her to be assured of herself.”

“That is an excellent answer,” the Peacemaker responded.  “Do you believe an education with my tribe could accomplish this?”

After a careful pause, the Destroyer put in, “I believe that it is not my choice, but the choice of Kamaria.”

“Also an excellent answer,” the Peacemaker was beaming so gently and, in this time, Drax had forgotten why he had asked to speak with her.  It did not matter, however.  This sense of stillness remained, until loud crashes and screaming echoed in the craft.

The two left this place of peace and charged, to ascertain what had happened.


	8. Lament for a Lost Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://youtube.com/watch?v=9E7xRkPS6Ew)

The phase began as it usually did.  Hovat awoke, alone on the dirt floor, and, already, she saw Kamaria, seated at the table and breaking fast with a piece of fruit; it was in little moments like this that she wondered if Kamaria--

“Mother, I do like sleeping near you,” Kamaria interrupted, as she studied her parent and engaged in eye-contact.  “I simply did not see a need to further the process, when I wanted to break fast.”  Her Little Moon almost sounded like a child again, when she shared logic like this.

Breakfast was short.  The walk to schooling was also short.  The goodbye, before Kammi departed her mother’s company, was also short.

Schools in this tribe, as they do in many tribes, operate continually and without form.  The role of instructor is played by all of the titles who are willing, and they come and go as they please.  The same was said for the students.  Some parents would simply leave their child at this place of learning for the length of their childhood, and this was acceptable.  Lessons were often hands-on and focused on combat techniques (both in groups and as individuals and with or without styles), types of weaponry, hunting, basic sciences, glyph composure, and oral history.  Mental breaks were provided often, wherein the instructors would relax and the students would play with one another.  Often, the games were simple.  Sometimes it was imagining things with dolls, or throwing around a ball from one end of a playground to the next.  They were fed too, at unfixed points of the day.  Although this school was more or less without form, often, its events would happen in some unspoken pattern.

So it was that Hovat recognized, by the arrangement of their moons, when she was to fetch Kamaria at the end of the phase.  

Hovat’s own affairs were a little more structured, perhaps more than what was normal for her kind, but it needed to be.

Always, she would enter her parlor, in the other section of her house, and prepare the chemicals for the hacking process.  As their species healed very quickly, the compounds she created had to serve three purposes: to color, to seal, and (if the person were ever injured) stimulate regrowth of a scar and coloration.  Naturally, in reaction to these chemicals, the skin of her peers did become red, almost like the lake.  Why?  Hovat neither knew, nor did she care to know.  Such truth did not aid her job, and an accumulation of unnecessary truths was a waste of brain.  As was tradition, part of the chemicals consisted of reddened lake mud; the rest of the recipe was known only by her and her apprentices.  Her apprentices were not guaranteed this job when they were older, although they came here of their own volition and Hovat had agreed to show them her trade; one phase, they would have to fight her and/or one another for this title of Hacker.

The pair of knives, used for hacking, were beautiful; they didn’t possess names, as heroes’ blades did in some old histories, because Hovat thought that practice was stupid and served no purpose.  They were made from the most durable metal on their planet, shiny, curved, and very sharp.  Only the Hacker was allowed to touch these knives and use them.  Were one of her apprentices to even poke one, they were immediately released from the tutelage.  The Hacker always knew when her knives were touched by one who was not she.  It was believed that they had belonged to the Liberator himself, that they were the Moondragon’s teeth.  Admittedly, the current Hacker could care less if they were or weren’t, as this knowledge was, once again, irrelevant to her duty.

From a glance, Hovat the Hacker knew that they were handled by someone that was not her, and she knew precisely who; lifting her blades from their usual holding place on the backmost wall of her parlor, the woman placidly turned to her apprentices, who were preparing more of the chemicals on the three tables in the room and setting up the arm-supports in the room’s center.

“Mer, you are dismissed,” the Hacker very officiously commanded, with a flourish of her hacking knives.  The youngling presently called Mer gave a look, dropped the chemicals she’d been working with, and then made the mistake of charging head-first in rage, towards her former master.  The Hacker knew to step to her side, and allow her former pupil run into a wall.  The walls of the parlor were made of a sturdy wood, as structures in their tribe were formed.  The youth was not yet strong enough to break through the parlor and, instead, knocked herself, unconscious and flat on her back.  It was glorious.

Unlike many warriors of her tribe and other tribes, the Hacker did not delight in this victory with laughter; instead, she smiled in a dignified manner and celebrated with a little hum, as she rinsed her knives in a small basin of undiluted red lake water.  This parlor was her domain, and her power here was vast.

This phase, the Hacker and her apprentices were to operate on a recently married couple.  They were untitled, so their union went without opposition, and they were able to consummate their passions immediately.  One of the two women knew that they were with child, already, and she wished to have it commemorated.  On both women’s chests, under their right breasts, were to be placed matching soul marks, to show their soul union.  Both women were covered up to their level of comfort and then laid on adjacent tables; they held each other’s hands and looked in each their partner’s eyes during the entirety of their hacking process.  Their mark, they had decided, would resemble their favorite knives.

As was customary, during the ritual, the Hacker sang a little song and spoke with the women, as she cut so lightly and her apprentices followed her incision with deft application of chemicals, applied with small brushes.  One could not simply hack at the skin of their kind once and expect the mark to remain.  Even the smallest of marks required layer upon layer of thin, controlled slicing.  It felt so right, working thusly with her knives in her hands.

“Hovat,” one of her clients began, speaking in a tone not unlike the one Kamaria had when she was very little.  It was appropriate, as Hovat had been hacking both women’s skin from their youth; by now, she knew what pressure points to avoid and could summarize their histories adequately, although she did not recall their names at the time.  “Did you carve a soul mark into yourself, after you had taken a partner?”

The Hacker shook her head, as she hummed and applied another, slow slice, carefully adding definition to the rendered knife’s blade.  The slice was well-studied, as it was applied, so that it could be perfectly replicated on her partner’s.  “It is unthinkable for a Hacker to carve into their own skin.  The Hacker knows the history of all in this tribe, but they must rely on memory alone to preserve theirs.”  It was a lesson she’d been taught from her mother, when she was young and making her first slices into Drago the Destroyer’s skin (with some smaller knives, not yet the Hacker’s).

“Why is that,” the other woman asked.  “Isn’t it ever a pain to see others walk around marked, while you possess none?”

The Hacker calmly made her way to this woman and sliced a little deeply, making this woman wince.  

“I am able to return some of that pain with my own.”  To show that this was not a declaration of war or a sign that she was insulted by what was told to her, the Hacker leaned in and gently kissed the new wound; she wiped the blood from her lips, and then continued working.

Neither client had been brave enough to ask about Drax the Destroyer, but that wasn’t a surprise.  Nobody ever asked about him, now that he’d gone.  When he returned, Hovat wouldn’t have been surprised if they regarded her husband with the same diffident indifference that he’d dealt with before.  What was it that made them so afraid of her husband?  This was something Hovat would ask herself, as she would steal glances at the harness in the center of the parlor.  Instead of lying at a table, her husband preferred to remain standing, with these bands holding his arms out, as she would hack into his skin; unlike many she would carve into, Drax the Destroyer never complained and, instead, would sometimes doze off.  As Hovat would do, at the end of their ritual, she would awaken him gently, and, as a thanks, he would give her the sweetest smile.  It was only with her that the Destroyer acted like this, and, she knew truly, that this had to be a part of why the others of this tribe feared him so.

To some of their fellow tribespeople, Drax was a boy who had died and returned; they were not terrified of the way he was cold most times but laughed in combat (as this was common) or his mercilessness in battle (which was also common), but his lawlessness.  He was supernatural to them, a thing that lived far from what they knew.  Never was this something regarded with reverence, but put-on ignorance and disassociation.  Some also believed that he was merely a large child, for neglecting to take his adolescent journey out of the tribe.  Many held to both beliefs and, many times, her husband had been told he scared them.  As was his way, he learned to keep away from most.

How it upset him, when he was summoned by the Elders for this mission!  How violent and upset he was, to be commanded to journey out of this planet and apologize on behalf of his forebearers’ and his slaughtering Xandarian colonists.

“I had destroyed those Xandarians when it was ruled a part of my mission,” she remembered her husband loudly interject, his eyes burning with the red-hot intensity of fire.  “I have no interest to leave!  Send someone who wishes to go!”  The Elders refused his argument, and, as was the way of their kind, had the decision decided through trial-by-combat.  Most of the titles faced against her husband, and only a small group of her titled friends were coerced to his cause.  (She, herself, was never allowed to join in these matches.)  They lost, after many phases of fighting.  Then, things returned to normal.  Hovat was still held in the highest esteem, as her husband remained ignored by those that weren’t his wife and child.

As was his habit, once this was decided, the Destroyer ceased complaining and accepted this decree.  Hovat thought often of him, and wished he simply hid in her basement again, instead of allowing himself to be taken to this mission.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The women appeared very pleased by the Hacker’s work, as they looked at their reflections in the large, central mirror of the parlor; they spoke many flattering things, as the touched each other’s marks.

“Hovat,” one of the woman preened, “this work would have taken your mother many phases to complete!”

“Such detail,” the other cooed, “it looks so real!”  

Hovat simply smiled, remaining humble, as she set her knives down.  “You must talk this prettily to my apprentices as well.”  They did so without hesitation, as Kamaria had when she was terribly young.  As was customary, they shook hands, and then parted ways quietly.  This pleasant exchange was suitable payment for her work.  Although it had been her right to demand more of them (like meat, weaponry, favors, or other past payments she’d accepted), this was for their soul union.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Hovat arrived, to fetch her child, she’d been informed by the instructors that Kamaria was excellent with recalling her history, but seemed to have lost her zeal for her knife-work; this was enough to give the Hacker pause, and frown.

“My daughter,” Hovat began, as she walked out of the school with her child’s hand in hers and  already anticipa--

“It makes me think of Father,” Kamaria confessed as she looked only at the dirt touching her feet.  “And, then, it becomes hard to do anything they ask of me.”

Hovat squeezed her child’s hands once, then twice, and put a strategic smile on her face.  It was enough to make Kamaria look up and return the squeezes and smile.

“You’ve been thinking of Father too,” Kamaria remarked.  This time, that smile didn’t go away.  Yes.  She was finally growing used t--

“You’ve been adjusting admirably to my confession,” her child admitted.  This time, it felt very pleasing to hear her thoughts revealed to her.  “Could you tell me of your courtship and betrothal, before I was born?”  If Hovat were able to, she would have blushed intensely as she walked alongside her progeny.

“Perhaps when we have returned home.  First, let us try to speak with Father at the Xandarian merchants’ storage unit,” she replied, with some firmness in her pleasant demeanor.  For now, Kammi seemed pleased by this and began swaying pleasantly; she was willing to wait, because she knew her mother would oblige her.  This made her happy to know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The two were seated in their usual ways.  Kamaria, looking clean and happy on her mother’s lap.  Hovat looked confident and put-together, and she could verify this in the pane’s reflection, as she entered the number.

When that was done, they waited.

And they waited.

And they waited.

And they...


	9. Mean to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1oo-D3ry2a8)

The sight before Drax the Destroyer was not one he’d wanted to see, especially not now.  There, like a triumphant huntress standing over her kill, stood Manaba the Mutilator, with a fist in the thoroughly mutilated screen of the ship’s audio-visual communication device and her right foot in the remains of its console.  Even with the electricity running through her systems, her face was not in pain.  Instead, she laughed, filling the room with her mockery.

“I did not appreciate the untruth stated of my profession,” Manaba proclaimed, either to the two who’d just entered the room or to no one in particular.  “Now, I have insured such untruths will never be spread again!”

There was that rage again, elevating his mind from calm to a frenzied state.  This.  This was unforgivable.

“Mutilator!”  The invocation of her name, although barely respectful by the standard set forth, wasn’t said like a name; it was less a word, constructed from letters and composed to express a meaning, but more a mostly meaningless, animalistic cry.  The original meaning was robbed, but repurposed and made appropriate within its context: namely, being paired with very violent actions.  The Destroyer screamed, as he charged at his enemy with arms out.

With a push, Manaba the Mutilator had been shifted out of her perch and deeper into the large, cracked screen.  The contact was not unwanted.  As a matter of fact, it was greeted with more laughter.

“Drax the Destroyer,” Manaba howled, like a spectre or like one meeting an old friend.  “We meet in battle, at last!”

There was much laughter, mingled and matched with ferocity, as the humanoids struck one another into the remains of the audiovisual communication device.

This was until the Peacemaker stepped closer, with both arms out and both hands open.  “This is enough!”

Her very presence was calming.  As the moons commanded the tides, so did the two cease their laughter and combat.  The pair thoughtlessly stepped out of the rubble, placed themselves before Pax, and humbly prostrated.

“Mutilator, Destroyer,” their homeworld’s eldest humanoid began.  “It is evident that you two possess a great history of hatred, one which I’d hoped you’d set aside for the sake of our combined mission.  As it is, you are unable to control yourselves.  So, for the sake of our planet, I have revoked your abilities to act on your own accord until the end of this cycle.  You will spend this time, remaining in this position and thinking of your actions.  After this, I will release you from my mental-hold and allow you to do combat, until your bloodlusts are both satisfied.”

Drax and Manaba were unable to nod or show some acquiescence, but such was unnecessary; they possessed no choice, but to complete the bidding of the Peacemaker.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were many things that went on in Drax the Destroyer’s mind, as he lay on the cold, metallic ground of the craft.  One of his first thoughts was a dumb wish, that would remain unfulfilled.  A shirt, or some manner of covering for his chest, to warm him from the cold.  The second was just as useless, concerning the Peacemaker.  Prior to this, he did not know of her mental magics; alright, he did hear, but he never had cause to believe such abilities actually existed.  This thought was greedier than the first, for, in its very existence, more questions and thoughts were birthed.  Had she used her gifts like this before?  Would she again?  To what ends?  This root-idea was cast aside, albeit with some hesitation.

Home.  Home was his focus.  His wife and child, and how he was cut off from them by the cruel Mutilator.  In this love for his family, there was something hidden.  As consequence, for his rival’s actions, this concealed...thing was revealing itself.  Whatever it was, Drax knew not its name; in it, however, he felt more powerful and more focused.  Preferable emotions, to laying on the ground and being unable to do anythi **oh, do be quiet!**

The Destroyer could not turn his head or react, but this odd dialect in his head...it was not from him **of course it is not!**

**Drax the Destroyer.  Your thoughts.  As childish as I’ve heard you are!** Drax the Destroyer was not a child; he had earned the title, fought wars on behalf of his tribe, performed his du **You do all of this without thinking or questioning!  Only a child obeys in such a way!**  The Destroyer recognized this odd, vowel-less dialect in his head!  Never before had he thought in it, but now **yes, I am the Mutilator.** What had the Destroyer ever done to the Mutilator to deserve such mistreatment?  Was it simply a consequence for the sins of his Fath **you’ve concealed this truth, haven’t you?** What truth?  All that the Destroyer could see was what was before him!  You **do not recall when we first met, Destroyer.  During our tribes’ penultimate war.** The Destroyer had fought valiantly, it was the first war he fought, when he was no longer a chi **your sweetheart had just rejected you, after you slew your predecessor.  You were barely an adolescent, as was Hovat, who was born Kairavi and who was frequently called Ovette; you had become so overconfident, after cheati** There was never anything in the laws which forbade such a tactic!   **She turned you down, because she did not know if she wanted to marry yet; she left, to journey.  You were anxious, but you’d promised to wait for her.**

**Then, the titles were summoned to war against my tribe, the first in millions of phases.  You were surly during the training, looked down on by your countrymen.  Your tribe, as individuals, are an unruly lot.  In order to improve morale and have your soldiers bond, as many warrior cultures do, generals permitted you and the other titles to have sex.**

**Having only loved the girl you promised to wait for, you did not partake in this ritual; you were ostracized for this** The Destroyer had been ostracized before this, and he grew impatient.  What was the Mutilator’s point? **Oh quiet.  Do you not remember when we first met, in the battlefield?  The war had been going on for some thousand phases.  You, my sister, and I?  You were injured and abandoned by your tribe.  Your body had been left to rot under a tree, in the forest.  My sister made the mistake of pitying you; she peered into your future, saw much good in i** What did she see? **I am not my sister; I see no good in you.  We stood you up, supported your weight under our shoulders, and took you to the nearest inn.  You had a room, on the upper floor, paid by us; then, you were seen by a healer.  My sister and I were breaking fast on the first floor, and then we heard screaming.  When we entered this floor, you were roaming the hallway.  The healer was dead at your feet, and you were pulling him along with your left hand.  In your right was the healer’s spine.  Your eyes were bloodshot.  You were rambling and laughing; you told us you were on the hunt** That was a lie!   **It was not!  Your mind had been consumed by a self-righteous bloodlust, and you were hunting for sport.  You did not care who you murdered, only that you did so.  My sister and I had to use our mental magics, to put you to sleep** That is a lie!   **I almost threw you into a river, to drown, and I would have succeeded if the Peacemaker did not arrive and stop me!  She took you back to one of your army’s camps and delivered you to your peoples’ healers** no, I--the Destroyer only remembered waking up with his own healers, after battles, who he did not harm; he fought until exhausted, and, then, until unconscio **Are you not frightened by this rhythm of the Galaxy?  Do you realize that the three of us being on this craft may mean something, in the grander scheme of destiny?**  What of Adahy?  Or the merchants?   **I haven’t ascertained their importance yet, but there must be something.  Or, perhaps, this is some horrid manipulation of the Peacemaker’s.** How could y--she say thi--that?  Pax was one of the oldest on their planet!   **She has served that role for too long, stagnated it; Pax, however, is justified in her use of mental magics.**  To enslave an entire planet?   **No.  Not the entire planet.  Only those that she could not influence with words alone, those that were not as child-like as yourself!**

**You are unfit to act as Destroyer.** And, for once, the Destroyer did not disagree.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time the Peacemaker returned to the room and removed her mental-hold on the pair, the violence they'd craved had long left them.  The Mutilator needed no other reason to arise and take her leave, from this space; she had great need to relieve her bladder.  The Destroyer remained where he was, on the ground.

"Destroyer, arise," the Peacemaker suggested, not at all imperatively but with the sweetest laugh.  But the Destroyer was disobedient.

"Destroyer," Pax repeated, as she stepped away from the door.  Her voice became somewhat steeled, less jovial.  "Arise."  Nevertheless, the Destroyer strained, attempting to remain where he was.  His arms.  They no longer felt so connected to his head, but as if they were tethered by rope and pulled forward by a large amount of persons.  His knees burned him.  The musculature of his lower legs constricted by themselves.  Automatically, his breathing became more labored.  His mind, slowly, became undone.  Long buried memories resurfaced and old thought patterns repeated themselves.  The telepath was scanning his mind.

Once more.  This time, with her right hand opened and her right arm raised out, the Peacemaker compellingly spake and closed in on the man-thing.  "Stand and face me, Destroyer.  Tell me how the Mutilator performed her function upon you."  Drax gritted his teeth, dividing his attention to his mind, his arms, and his legs.  Try as he would, his right leg, almost of its own volition, slowly slid forward.  His mind was pulled in several directions, by both him and one of the Eldest of his home-planet.  The greyish coils in his headspace, which he was vaguely aware of, were being unwound.  A massive headache formed, like his brain was being pulled back and, then, pushed with a deft amount of force, against the inner-wall of his skull.

His left arm.  It began to lift his torso up, by pushing against the ground.  Wincing, Drax gripped his left forearm, squeezed, and, with a brutal flick of the wrist, snapped his own radius and ulna.  His body collapsed forward, with a dense thud.  The resulting pain seared his mind, marking it with intense heat and effectively serving as a stimulant.

Pax's eyes flashed, and she threw her right arm down.  "Enough!  Destroyer, what has gotten into you?"  With that, he was released.  Graciously, his inhalations became slower and deeper.  He spread his limbs about, as he felt his muscles fibers relax.  But, as the man lifted his head, his eyes were narrowed in a sort of glare.

"The Mutilator showed me truth," Drax replied.  "She revealed my unruly, terrifying nature and your mental manipulations."  His lips shifted, forming a sort of sneer.  "You were the only one on our planet that I respected, without fearing--"

"Destroyer, the Mutilator thinks near-constantly of going against her function and murdering you," Pax so coolly replied, as she slowly got on her knees.  With an easy pace, the Peacemaker lowered herself, sitting on her lower calves.  "Since we were assigned to this mission, I have been inducing her to act appropriately."

"You lie!"  The Destroyer could not contain his anger any longer.  "For whatever reason, you chose us!  You mentally influenced our tribes, so that we were forced out--!"

Even with his increased volume, Pax's tone remained confident.  Its gracious empathy even waxed, as the older woman leaned forward and placed an open palm against his forehead.  "I did no such thing, Drax, I did not choose you or Manaba; I see in multiple dimensions, at least three more than you.  They all appear to me, at once.  Right now, as we talk on this plane, I see another, wherein I am speaking with your father in your place.  Instead of consorting with Manaba, I see myself interact with her unblinded twin.  I believe that that is the dimension of things as they were meant to happen.  I would have chosen your father, to go in your place.  But I believe that this reality was torn asunder.  Our planet's streams of destinies were altered by the invasion of the Xandarians, but our planet still needs to be saved.  I had to make due with what I had--"

"No!"  With a growl and a brusque swing of his right arm, the Destroyer removed the old woman's hand from his head.  "We are not things!  We do not live upon, let alone see, this plane!  You have no right to play with our minds!  Release us!"

The old woman's eyes grew, and she scooched farther away from Drax.  "Destroyer, I did release y--"

"Release everyone, including the Mutilator!"

"Drax, no, she will kill you!"  This was hardly delivered like a scolding.  More like a parent, afraid for their child.

"She can try, but, I assure you, she won't succeed," The Destroyer insisted, unwavering.  In that instance, the Peacemaker looked very small; had she always been so small, or did her mental influence make her being seem much larger?  With some hesitance, her eyes shut and her little, bald head bobbed.

"It is done."

A growl and a scream reverberated throughout the halls, one that sounded terribly unhumanoidal.  Slowly, Drax placed his right hand on the ground.  Loud, quick, angry stomps bounded, their volume and momentum increasing exponentially.  Drax shifted his legs, still moving at the same pace he had been, and finally stood once more.  At the doorway stood the Mutilator, livid.

"You are terribly foolish," the blue-yellow warrior-woman insisted.  Not at all said with any hint of irony or hidden word of thanks.

"Yes," the Destroyer agreed simply.  His gaze aimed directly for Manaba, but, from his peripheral vision, he could see the Peacemaker.  Her eyes were shut and her old hands were opened and raised at her sides.  She was praying for them.

"And you," the Mutilator so pointedly changed her topic, as if accusing another.  With a head-shift, her attention turned to the Peacemaker.  "You were justified in controlling us, to maintain peace, but I should still mutilate you for it."

Without opening her eyes, lowering her hands, or raising her voice, Pax swallowed, but, then, slowly nodded in agreement.

"You will have to mutilate me first," Drax cut in, stepping closer and stopping just at the point where he'd block Manaba's view of the Old One.  "My destruction of a simple healer was completely unjustified, and, even worse, I had affected my own mind, to block out this grievous act.  My judgement is ruled by my erratic temperament, and my conscience dictated by my fragile, warped sense of self-righteousness.  I may act thusly again, and you must stop me from doing so."

Still glaring, the blue woman shut her eyes and clicked her tongue. "I would love nothing more than to tear out your spine, now, and leave you invalid, for the rest of your phases.  But, after our time-out, the violence in me has waned."

"After our sleep-cycles, then," the Destroyer put in.  "You may act as you will.  We can do combat, for as long as we please."

The warrioress opened her eyes and tilted her head.  Her lips parted slightly and moved, reacting as one would to something mephitic.  "It is done, then."

With that, the Mutilator pivoted herself about and took her leave.  Pax remained where she was, still silently praying.  And Drax turned to the remains of the communication device.  His wife, with her vast wisdom, would have known what to do now.  But, he could not speak to her now; now, the Destroyer had to act on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a pretty busy weekend ahead of me, so I won't be posting the next chapter until Monday.
> 
> Until then, see ya!


	10. In a Sentimental Mood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sR13ECD71xU)

Kamaria’s crying didn’t relent once.  Not after Hovat kicked the device, out of frustration.  Not after the surprisingly kind Xandarians at the storage unit attempted to share words of comfort, in a very broken delivery of their native tongue, and promised to fix the machine.  Not during their long trek home.  And not at all during dinner.

But the Hacker did not join in.  One of them had to be strong, now, or what was left of their family would fall completely apart.  She would be the center, and she would hold.  They would outlast this separation, for as long as they would need to.  With something resembling her sweetest smile, Hovat lifted her child up and set her in her lap; calmly stroking Kamaria’s very smooth head, she asked, “Dear, can you tell me what I’m thinking now?”

Sniffling, the child bobbed head and let out a sad little hum.  Her posture wasn’t so bad, now, and her body seemed a little less jittery.  Her Kamaria was a little strange.  Part child and part old woman, was she.  “You’re...giving me permission to pry?”

A kiss, to the top of her daughter’s perfect little head.  “Yes.  As deeply as you would wish.  My mind is yours to explore.  As fully as you would desire.”

Her child slowly inhaled, and, then, released a slow, shuddering exhalation.  “Will you guide me along?  It’s terribly lonely, to be in someone’s mind without them.”

Hovat wouldn’t have known how such a thing felt, but she believed her daughter; she lifted the girl up and turned her, with easy motions of her hands.  It wasn’t such a hard feat, to carry a child this  size.  With a sweet smile, the mother said, “Of course.  What is it that you’d like to see, in my mind’s eye?”

Her little babe couldn’t help but reciprocate that smile.  A perfect mix of her mother’s and her father’s.  Perhaps, hidden in the curvature, was a bit of Hex and Patwin.  In her dimples, there could be some of Drago and Jaina.  The culmination of their genealogies, all expressed in their most perfect, pure manner.  The lower lids of her eyes were still a little misty and puffy, but there was something sweet in them.  A twinkle of affection, a shade of shared misery that only the two of them felt.  “I can’t decide, Mother.  You’ve experienced so much; you’ve led such a fascinating life--!”

Hovat simply had to laugh; when she was Kamaria’s age, she’d never been so curious about her parents’ accomplishments or the contents of their minds.  Her honesty was refreshing.  So innocent, so plain-faced.  It had to come from her father.  Hovat knew here elf well enough that she knew her truths weren’t so pure.  “We could explore it in parts, you and I.  Night after night.”  It could suffice, in place of her father’s bedtime stories.

“Really?”  This seemed to cheer her up considerably and her little body squirmed once again.  “Can we see Father tonight?”  It shouldn’t have surprised her, that her child would have asked such a thing of her.  Nevertheless, for an instance, that sweetest, maternal smile flickered.

“A happy memory of your Father,” the wife added, her simper returning somewhat.  “And you.  You have to be in it, too.”  Now, this induced her child to be especially squirmy and giggle.

“And it can’t be a story you’ve told before,” her Sweetest One jokingly chided.

“You drive a very hard bargain,” Hovat quirked, in as jovial a tone as her baby.  “But it will be done.  How about when you were born--”

“No,” Kamaria said, with a playful shake of her head.  “I don’t wanna hear that one yet!  What about whenever people get married, you and Father say that their union was unopposed after some phases.  What do you and Father mean about that?”  They hadn’t told them about this at the school?  How strange, how selective was their education!  To teach the children of weaponry, and, yet, to neglect teaching such a basic fact of life…? 

“You remember, how some women and men select a spouse?”

“They ask ‘em.  Or, if a lot are interested, they have all of their suitors enter combat--!”

“To decide who will be selected to wed,” Hovat finished, in her most amendable tone.  “And, even after the wedding, the surviving suitors are still able to challenge the victor.  When the suitors cease their rematches, the union is unopposed.”

“How many did you long to wed, Mother?”

The answer was obvious, and she could read, in her child’s expression, that Kammi knew it well.  “Only one.  Your father.”  And it was very true.

Her child clapped, as though she were watching the shadow puppets of a group of traveling performers.  “And how many wished to marry you?”

“About forty others,” her mother replied, so modestly, with a somewhat embarrassed beam.  “But I knew only one of them really loved me, and would keep on doing so for the rest of their life.”  She needn’t say who, because it was too obvious in the narratives they’d been sharing with Kamaria.  “He’d proposed to marry, right after he became the Destroyer.  And, even after a war and waiting for me to return from my adolescent journey, he hadn’t become one bit bitter towards me.  There was a different gravity to him, but he still treated me with the same respect that he had when I had sequestered him in my mother’s basement.”

“But Father looked different,” Kamaria guessed.  “Time can’t pass without anyone changing in some way.”

Hovat paused for a moment, to see if she could recall what exactly her husband looked like, when she’d first returned.  He was taller.  More muscular, from the rigorous regimen soldiers underwent.  His voice was considerably deeper.  But he didn’t turn out much like his father, like she and he had both hoped.  The only part, it seemed, that he’d inherited was some seriousness.  She recalled being disappointed, yet, not at all surprised, when she first looked at the grown version of the boy who’d become her husband.

Kamaria’s eyes flashed, as her mother processed all of this.  For once, she was getting something that resembled a physical description!  Recalling something, consciously, could be really unusual.  It wasn’t so much about recreating exact constructions and circumstances.  When remembering something, and sharing it with another, it felt more like retracing feelings, to recall the circumference of experiences and summarize their vastness.  How unusual was it, that she was able to recall a detail (like the way her husband’s eyes had become a little more deep-set), yet she could no longer remember larger parts of this meeting?

“Mother, when did you first see Father, after your return?”

With some hesitance, Hovat replied, “I believe it was when I was fighting my mother, for her title.”  A pause.  “Or, it was a little before, on my way to her parlor.”  Another.  “Or, maybe, it was after--”

Kamaria’s eyes narrowed and, in a beat, her smile disappeared.  But, her look wasn’t one of adorably disappointed pouting, or frustration.  Her look became blank, with eyes wide, brows raised, and her little mouth set in a perfect horizontal fashion.  Unnerving, to see her childish features disappear.  Her hands raised, with open palms, and rested on her mother’s forehead.

“L-love,” Hovat stammered.  “What are you--?”  And, just like that, her mind was tugged.  At least, that was what it had felt like.  Her mind was pulled forward and, then, carefully, turned over.  The Hacker remained in her seat, with her posture perfectly still but her eyes moving rapidly.  Recollections of her past flashed before her.  Old feelings resurfaced.  She saw her father, in a more pristine picture than when she tried to recall his visage on her own.  Her mother, in her prime, fearsome with the knives that would become her own and terribly livid, when she’d found out that her daughter had used her weapons without her permission.  Drago the Destroyer, as he entered her mother’s parlor (decorated in the same manner it was now) and gave her a most accusing glance.  There was an immensity to his presence, one that she had long forgotten.  The way that he stood before her, as if he were carved out of rock and had remained in her mother’s workstation for thousands of phases.  Eyes, that immediately told her that he’d already known everything that there was to know about her and her life.  And, behind him, outside of mother’s parlor, there was a smaller figure seated.  His son, about her age.  Far less imposing, focused more intently on polishing his knives.  His posture was excellent, but he swung his legs to-and-fro in a terribly undisciplined manner.  He was anxious, longed to leave and run out.  Hovat had long forgotten how restless her husband once was.

For lack of a better description, the scenery melted away and the players shifted.  From the black emerged a night sky, with many full moons shining down on them.  The ground beneath them resembled the grey stone of the center of their village.  It was a highly unusual time, with heavy rain and water from the lake flowing into the center (Hovat had not recalled that this had happened).  It did not create a high enough tide to drown them, merely to fill in the spaces between the rocks placed in the ground.  It appeared like flesh, freshly scarred.  Drax’s father had taken his leave, as quietly as he had entered.  More of their kind gathered around, in a circle, around Hovat and her mother.  Her mother had aged, but she remained angry; she was striking at her, screaming at her child that she would not simply hand her title over, how her child would have to murder her own mother to claim what she wanted.  Hovat had lost track of Drax, focused completely on dodging her mother’s knife toss and catching its handle in a single, smooth motion.  She had been unarmed, until her mother had made such a grievous mistake.  Hovat could no longer remember how, four phases ago, she and Kamaria had shared a meal with her old mother and the former Dido the Destroyer; she could not, for the life of her, recall how sweet natured retirement had made her and what a good grandmother she’d made.  All that went through her mind, at the time, was an immense hatred.  A need to prove herself.  A very youthful desire to prove her mother wrong, take what she knew in her heart was hers.  The two of them charged close, clashing their knives loudly and butting their heads against each other.  Her head throbbed, but that did not matter.  To find her place in the world, she was prepared to orphan herself.  As her mother gave another headbutt, Hovat leaned back, to give the appearance of being concussed, but then, quickly, threw a leg out and kicked the back of her mother’s knee.  Her mother slipped on the wet rock and fell over backwards.  Hovat, then, ran forward and stomped on the wrist of her mother’s knife hand, forcing her forebearer to let go.  Her mother looked so much like an animal, caught in a trap.  Pathetic, pleading.  Eyes flashing, all that she could recall was hate flowing through her, as she held her knife up and prepared to deal the killing blow.  That was until she looked up and, in a brief instance, caught sight of the man who became her husband.

His posture was still excellent, and he no longer swayed like a little child.  He lacked the immensity that his own father had possessed, but his eyes?  In his cold stare, he had inherited some of that fearful knowledge of his father’s and something else that chilled her bone marrow.  Judgement.  Judgement, from the boy whose life she’d saved.  From the only reason she’d wanted to return to this hellhole of a village.

And, just like that, they were back in their home.  Kamaria was shaking her a little, fearful and trembling.  It took a moment or two for those words, coming out of her little mouth, to make any sense.  “--Mother--I--I didn’t mean to--Mother, I thought it wasn’t going to hurt you like that, I didn’t think it was going to do that--I just wanted to give a push, help you remember--I didn’t mean to see all of that, I didn’t--”

Absent-mindedly, Hovat brought a hand to her own cheek; without thinking, she let out a small, surprised exhalation.  There were tears, streaming down her eyes, and she hadn’t known it.

When was the last time she’d wept like this?

She no longer remembered, but, now, she comprehended that Kamaria was also weeping; not knowing what else to do, Hovat drew her daughter closer and made soothing, shushing sounds.  “It’s alright, love.  It’s alright.  I’m alright, I’m alright.  It’s only the mind.  It’s only the past.  They can’t hurt us.  They can’t hurt us.”  Where these words came from, inside, she was uncertain.  But she felt her lips move and heard the words in her voice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were many things that she and Drax loved about their sweet little daughter.  A countless many things.  The little arrogant manner her lips would curl, when she was right about something.  Her demanding nature.  Her need to show off.  But, when they were terribly upset with her, as parents sometimes become with their children, they found these same traits somewhat burdensome.  When Kamaria was upset, as children often were of their parents, none of these traits were present.

Hovat searched, desperately, in her child’s visage for anything that hinted to her Sweetest One’s personality.  The two were lying together, on the ground and about to sleep, but finding themselves unable to do so.  “I have disappointed you.”

“No, Mother,” Kamaria flatly put in.  “You and Father lied to me, but it is simply a part of who you are--”

“We never lied,” her Mother insisted, wrinkling her nose slightly.  “We told the truth, but we did not recall the whole truth.”  The Hacker had her arms wrapped around Kamaria, but, oddly, her child didn’t try to return this embrace.  She’d remained stiff, solid.

“Why is that?  Why does everyone do that,” Kamaria questioned, after a very long pause.  “Why are they blunt and honest about some things, but hide other truths from themselves and others?”

Hovat couldn’t think of an answer.  Thankfully, there was no need.  Her child continued talking, trying to make sense of this.  

“It’s because we do this to make ourselves appear tougher, to believe that we are tougher.  We examine others outwardly, but we fear searching ourselves internally.  Because we fear finding out that we are weak.  Right?  People are only unafraid of sharing the truths that make them appear stronger.”

Hovat said nothing.

“Mother.  If you were sad here, why didn’t you leave?  Why did you come back?”

Hovat had always feared this day, when her daughter would ask such a question.  It was always going to be her, not Drax, who would have asked such a thing.  “I did leave, to figure out what I wanted with my life and with myself.  But, I returned because I never found anything out there that I’d wanted more than your Father.  I knew, of anything that I would encounter out there, only his affection for me would be unwavering.  I had feared losing it only once, but I’ve never felt this fear again.  I knew that, if I left for good, I may never see him again.  So, I settled in this place and kept up a livelihood that I knew I liked and could handle.”

Kamaria looked at her Mother, squinting slightly.  It was likely that the child was prying through her mind, searching on the surface-level for evidence to support this claim.  And, then, Kammi sighed, looking relieved.  It appeared to pass her test.  “At least that part’s real.”

“Yes,” Hovat agreed, puzzled, yet oddly unsurprised, by this assessment.

“Why didn’t you convince Father to go with you, when you returned?”

“Your Father is terribly stubborn and he lacks an imagination,” the Destroyer’s wife admitted.  “He’d wanted to become Drax the Destroyer, all of his life, and I wouldn’t take that from him.”

The child’s probing didn’t stop.  “Do you ever regret not staying out of here for yourself, instead of staying for hi--?”

“My Love,” Hovat cut in.  “It was for me.  I did do that for myself.  Your Father never forced me to stay, I chose to do it on my own.  I had seen the world, but I preferred the stability and satisfaction I felt with him.  I had to compromise, give up some things to have what I wanted.  I know I’m better for it, because I know we wouldn’t have had you if I’d never returned.”

Kamaria turned and looked up at the ceiling, not saying a thing.  How strange it was, to have found something that her very mature mind could not entirely comprehend.  The pair remained like this, until slumber had found them.


	11. You Don’t Know What Love Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLFlJIqiMLc)

Kamaria was the first among the pair to awaken and she spent her first moments awake simply observing Mother’s face.  The creases near the sides of her eyes, the sharpness of her chin, the softness of the bulb at the end of her nose.  Every feature appeared to present something new, something that she’d never noticed until now.  For instance, there appeared to be a little mole near her mother’s left nostril.  It was often hidden by the shadows, and little Kammi had never sought it out until now.  Kamaria used to enjoy waking up earlier than her Mother, because it gave her time to peer inside of her head and look at what she dreamt of.  Often, it was something from her girlhood days.  A hunting trip she’d had, with some old friends whose names she’d long forgotten.  Sometimes there’d be a recollection of Father, and offering to make some supper for her because she’d be too tired.  Then, there were the strange dreams.  The odd ones she’d forget, when she woke up.  The ones where she flew, where she slew mythical beasts, where she traversed shining forests.  Kamaria had preferred doing this with Mother because, as she’d said, Father had no imagination.  Often he did not dream.

It was at this point Kamaria came to a conclusion that had never occurred to her before: it was Father, not Mother, who was perfectly content living like this.  Sure, during the day, Father was usually tired and didn’t smile as much as Mother, but his conscious and subconscious thoughts rarely strayed from home and hearth.  Mother, on the other hand, despised how the people of their tribe hated Father, disagreed with much of their people’s traditions, and sought relief in escaping its borders with a hunting trip or in carving the flesh of its people; as of the end of the last phase, her mother had transformed into another person.  Or,  maybe, the person she’d always been was revealed.  Kamaria couldn’t tell which it was.

A little at a time, her powers had allowed her to peer into her parents’ minds.  It was like a small dip of the toes, at first, listening in to superficial thoughts.  She used to be content, knowing simply her parents’ superficial thoughts.  That contentment refused to last.  She had craved to exercise her powers, venture deeper into the mind.  With each scan, her powers would be expended further than before.  There was something unspeakably satisfying about reaching into another person’s head and taking something she wasn’t meant to know.  It made her feel more powerful and closer to the person she’d scanned.  That night was the first she’d ventured so deeply into another’s head, and it was the first she’d completely regretted it.  No longer was her Mother simply her provider, but, well, a person.  Someone deeply fucked up, resentful, vindictive, silly, and weak.  Kamaria wasn’t certain what she thought of this person.

By the barest definition of the word, this woman was still her mother.  She would still care for her, feed her, listen to her, love her; she’d held her in her womb and nursed her for a long amount of time.  Yet, this could never be the same woman.  Never had Kamaria felt the hatred her Mother held for her beloved Grandmother or sampled the true depth of her insecurity.

A tiny hand was placed on her Mother’s forehead.  For a child who was raised on stories, with neat conclusions and simple morals, Kamaria needed some closure; she knew, in her heart of hearts, that she had to venture further.

What was it that her Mother had seen out there?  What possessed her to sacrifice her own happiness and remain in a place she hated, even for a person she loved?  It made no sense to little Kamaria, really; she was also fond of Father, but she could never understand why anyone would sacrifice their own livelihood for another person.  Furrowing her brows, Kamaria shut her eyes and entered into a place she’d never peered in before, in one of the less sunny-looking patches of her Mother’s mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were in a forest that had yet to be claimed by any tribe, the only place where Mother could sleep and remain close enough to her tribe.  It was night.

Mother was an adolescent, as was Father, a little after he’d killed the murderer of his father and Mother’s father.  They were both a little thinner than Kamaria had recalled, a little more nervous, sitting on a fallen tree trunk.  They didn’t light a fire, out of fear of being found out.  (What was it that had altered his narrative?  Was it that Kamaria sought out these differences and, now, they stuck out?  Or were they always there, and she’d simply been too naive to notice?)  Mother’s mother had figured out what had happened and she was livid, not because her daughter avenged her father but because of her methods.  The Hacker’s trade was sacred, and, with Mother’s helping Father, her trust with her fellow tribesmen had been irreparably sullied.  Mother’s mother also feared that her daughter had manipulated her oldest friend’s son for her own purposes (which, to be fair, wasn’t wrong).  Hovat, before she called herself Hovat, was thrown out of her childhood home.

Although Drax the Destroyer had gained a title, there was no wealth that came with it; he needed to build up respect, earn favors by performing deeds for his fellow tribesmen (which few were willing to ask from him) and by acting out his function.  For the last few phases, they’d been living in these woods.  With a lot of regret, Father would have to leave Mother and meet with the Elders, to learn the Destroyers’ history and undergo intensive training.  During the daytime, Mother would have to hide from her mother’s allies (who were plentiful) or fend for herself from wild animals.  Near the end of the phase, Father would return with some meagre food rations for the pair of them (really, the Elders had provided Father with enough food to support him, as he trained).  Both were too exhausted to hunt or gather more sustenance.

“This is foolish,” Mother admitted, as they split bread, and Kamaria had to agree.  Their halves appeared no bigger than her tiny palms.  How was this supposed to support two near-adolescents?

“You can have the rest.  If half’s not enough for you,” Father insisted, handing his small portion to her.

“No.  You have to eat too,” Mother angrily chided, as she pushed that piece away.

“I don’t,” Father informed Mother, so atonally.  “I can go many phases without eati--”

“Not while you do heavy physical work,” Mother cut in.  “You might faint in front of the Elders, if you don’t eat enough!  Then what do you think would happen?  Do you want them to think you’re unfit to be Destroyer and take your title?”  Drax said nothing, uncertain of what to say.  Mother’s eyes were moistening at the corners; all of her life, she’d been cared for by someone else.  Food was never something she had to worry about.  The two of them didn’t say a thing, until the rest of the rations were gone; then, they argued about who would sleep first (the other would have to stay up and keep watch).  Mother insisted she should keep watch, while Father believed otherwise.  Their argument came to a stalemate and a stand-off.  Both sat, arms crossed, at opposite ends of the log and awaited for the other to fall asleep first.

Half a sleep cycle passed, before Mother finally spoke up.  “We can’t live like this anymore.”

It was a while before Father responded.  “We won’t have to.  The titles are being sent to war.”

Mother didn’t seemed pleased about this at all.  “Drax!  When did they tell you this?  Who are you being sent to fight?”

Again, Father took some time to reply.  “Two phases ago, and I’m not certain who.”

Mother stood, with her hands wrapped into fists.  “Drax, you have to know!  They can’t tell you they’re sending you to do combat without telling who you’re being sent to fight!  Who are you being sent to fight?”

Father wasn’t looking at Mother, so he couldn’t see her eyes flashing and her features shift into a sneer.  “You were paying attention when they told you, weren’t you?”

Father said nothing.

“Drax, you have to pay attention when it’s something important like that,” Mother told him, so matter-of-factly.  Father didn’t seem used to being scolded like this at all, especially by Mother; he was moving around in his end of the log, looking terribly uncomfortable with this.

“I know that,” the young Destroyer corrected Mother.

“Why didn’t you do it, then?”

Father said nothing, until, “If we got married, when I am sent to do combat, they’ll have to let you back in and give you an allowance.  It would be a small pittance, but it would be something you could live off of.  It’s an obscure rule, but they would have to honor it.”

Mother simply stared and groaned.

“Legally, our soul would be the same,” Father continued.  “And the Elders would have to tend their soldiers, in times of war, body and soul.  That was the exact wording, as the Elders told me.  They would have to take care of you.”

“Drax, that doesn’t make any sense.  And it can’t work like that.” Mother sighed, shaking her head and taking a few steps away.  Kamaria waited for Father to do something.  Get up and stop her, maybe.  Win her over by saying the right thing.

Father simply remained sitting, albeit with very good posture, and watched Mother as she moved away.  Very flatly, “At least we could try it.  You saved my life and, for that, I will always be in your debt.  This is the way I want to repay it.”

Mother stood, blinking, and then took more steps, deeper into the woods; she didn’t know where she’d be headed, but she didn’t seem to care.  Anywhere was preferable.  Anywhere but here.  Mother was almost out of sight, when Father said what he should have long ago.  “Ovette.  I love you.”

Mother may have travelled a little farther but, in the dead silence of night, she could hear Father’s pitiable goodbye.  Her response was terribly cold.  “I might come back.  If I do, you can come find me.”

With that farewell shared, Mother began her adolescent journey and trudged deeper and deeper into the forest.  Father didn’t budge from his spot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mother thought often of turning back, simply to check if Father remained in his spot (and she was certain he would have); yet, with very little food in her system, she kept on moving.  The first lesson that came to her was of her name and its necessity.  Who she was, what she was called before she left, were a part of her childhood.  That was the name her mother gave her, and, the farther out she journeyed out, the less likely it would be that anyone would recognize her by that name; without her personal ties, she was nobody.  Yet, with this damning realization, there was freedom.  She was nobody, so she could easily mold herself into somebody else.  No longer would she be Kairavi, often called Ovette, but she could become whomever she wished to be.

The second lesson Mother learned, as she climbed up a tree to sleep, was that safety and security were illusions.  The sanctity of a house needed no walls, but some sort of natural pattern to fall back on.  When she was with Drax the Destroyer, in spite of losing her mother’s trust, there was something of a pattern she could fall back on.  By the end of each phase, Drax would always come back to her.  As she balanced her thin body upon a sturdy-seeming branch, wrapped her arms around her chest, and shut her eyes, she quietly mourned the final vestige of home she’d chosen to give up.  Out here, her home would rove with her.  All that Mother needed to find was some shape for her life to take.

Sleep refused to find her.

When the next phase began, her first thought was of food.  Below her feet, out of the corner of her almond-shaped eyes, she could see a small, serpentine R’sani, as it slithered out of its burrough and hid itself in the grass.  The creature wasn’t looking at her.  With a quiet head-turn to the left, she spied a bushy-tailed rodent.  A third lesson happened upon Mother, as she quietly drew her dagger from her belt and climbed down.  The third lesson was that nature had a pattern of its own.  It was a society that was neither ruled by informal rules nor a smaller caste, but strength of the mind and of the body.  Only when these were in synchronization, like within the R’sani, would anyone become truly powerful and live by their own rules.  To synchronize oneself, and meet a goal (in this case, to consume a considerably larger foe), one needed discipline and a measure of courage.  Courage to propel one out of their home and discipline to stay that course.  Like the R’sani, Mother hid herself behind the trunk of her massive tree and watched the R’sani’s prey.  The rodent focused only on the small seed it was consuming, too absorbed in its little victory to know what awaited it; the little beast was certainly larger than the R’sani, possibly cleverer, but it lacked its predator’s same awareness.  This was how the R’sani was able to pounce behind the beast, teeth first, and claim it as its meal; it was also because of this same, ever-present awareness that Mother was only able to take two steps forward, before the R’sani caught sight of her, wrapped itself tighter to its prey, and bore out its teeth in a deadly sort of smile.  Out of respect for the reptile, Mother stepped back, turned face, and moved onwards.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After some phases, Mother found a dirt road.  Its borders appeared messier than any pathway of stone she’d travelled upon back home, telling her that this was not a purposefully made walkway.  Its path had been created by the first travelers that had tread upon the ground, and further refined and defined by those who had later chosen to cross its ways and trust in the choices of its past travelers.  Mother decided to carry on this tradition, knowing that following a road less travelled could lead her into the belly of a beast.  Not in a metaphorical sense.

It was on this path Mother came across some travelling performers, in the midst of a rehearsal.

Little Kamaria, who had become so embroiled in her Mother’s recollections and reflections that her own thoughts appeared to mirror those of her Mother, was taken aback when she formed her own sort of syllogism.

This was a travelling performance troupe.  Performance troupes live by making people happy, so they must enjoy it.  Therefore, this troupe would take Mother in and tend to her, to make her happy.  

But the troupe was so absorbed in perfecting their performance that most of the actors, jugglers, and acrobats paid her Mother no mind.  In that moment, they were focused only on their performance and of capturing a palatable presentation of real life.  The managers, however, saw Mother and spoke with her.  Her mouth moved, and she said some things that she no longer recalled.  There was still too much pride in her to beg or bargain with them, to take her in.  Perhaps she was paying some lip-service to the quality of the performance.

How long had it been since Mother had seen another person, let alone spoken with them?  The last had to have been Father.  Father, who most likely had moved from that spot she’d last seen him; unless, of course, he did not.  What was the chance that he’d taken what she’d said too seriously and waited, to see if she would return?  It was then that Mother came to realize another important lesson: even though she was nobody, free to be whomever to these performers, she was still herself.

Years could pass and her form would grow taller and more womanly, but, internally, her spirit was the same.  Her past had been cast, and would not be undone.  The person that she was, the daughter of Hex and the only friend of Drax the Destroyer, would always be who she would be, in addition to whomever she claimed or became.  Yet, it also set a limitation.  Certainly, Mother could never change species.  Her spirit could adapt to a vast degree, with the right sort of discipline and courage, but there were shapes her spirit would never find happiness in assuming.

Mother had grown weary of complementing the performers; she politely ended the conversation, and continued on her way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After this point, Mother’s thoughts and memories became melded together, vaguer.  In order to ascertain the passage of time, Kamaria needed to look to her Mother and see how much she’d grown.

Early on, when she finally made her way into a tribe, the first she’d encountered in a while, her first questions were of the war.  Few acknowledged such a thing went on and, among the few that were aware of her native tribe and another feuding, there was a great amount of confusion about what started it.  Some claimed that it was due to a territorial dispute, while others guessed it was because some groups of elders felt insulted.  Either way, in this part of the world, it meant nothing.  It was like a little made-up story, told to pass the time, or some pithy little statement made in light conversation.  There was a chance Father could be killed, and she would never know.  Like any adolescent on this sort of journey, Mother wandered into other tribes and took up temporary positions.  In this small tribe by a cliff, a group periled steep canyons for the purpose of gathering birds’ eggs.  The eggs themselves weren’t particularly delectable, but the riskiness about the manner they were seized lent a flavor of their own.  For some phases, Mother joined this group, until she grew tired of them.

In the next tribe, she caught rodents at an inn.  It was at this inn that Mother overheard travelers’ tales and realized how much she missed hearing stories, how she’d longed to tell her own and listen to others’; for the first time in many phases, Mother thought of Hex and her hacking parlor.  Of the symbols her tribespeople had carved into their flesh, of the stories they wanted everyone to recognize them by.  Of Fenrir the Fighter, who had asked to have an animal’s face carved into his own, so that all would believe that he was as fearsome as a creature.  Of Nadie the Necromancer, and the skulls carved into her knuckles for the first of the dead she’d spoken with.  It was an honor and a thrill to have heard such tales, and, in listening to them, play some part in another’s narrative and live their experiences.  In time, Mother grew tired of this tribe as well.

As most adolescents on this journey are able to do, she had made her way to a forest in the North.  In the breeze of this forest, it was said that the knowledge from other worlds was whispered here.  So it was in this place that many heard what would become their name, taken from the tongue of some foreign place.  It was here, that, as Mother sat on a stump, that she realized she still thought of Father and realized how silly it was.  By now, there was a chance that he was dead or no longer the little boy she’d left behind.  Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder how he’d chosen his own name when he hadn’t journeyed out to this sacred place.  And, it was in this wondering that Mother had heard a name and came to her own conclusion.  Drax the Destroyer had made up his own name.  For whatever reason, such a realization made Mother laugh, yet it did not surprise her; so it was, right there, she decided to do the same.  The name she’d heard, betwixt the prickling of the trees, was too pretty to forget, and so she safekept it as one to give her own pretty daughter.  Never before had she thought of having a child, but, at that time, the thought of it wasn’t repulsive.

Mother had become many things on this journey.  Out of respect for her, Kamaria would walk out of the romantic rendezvous she would entertain; her little child had seen enough to know, at the beginnings of these romances, her Mother would feel an all-consuming passion.  Yet, by the end of them, when either they would leave or she would grow tired of her surroundings, this lust would dissipate.  It was after the fourth or eighth of these that, while breaking fast alone by a creek, Mother came to realize none of that was really love.  None of those dalliances felt firm, like she would build a livelihood around them; she’d choose to forget them, as her former lovers would her, but she would never forget the odd little boy she’d left behind.

So it was that Mother packed up what meagre belongings she’d accumulated (a knife and some clothes), and thought very seriously of what she would need to do, to build a home, the sort that she could see herself living, back in her native tribe.  To do this, its imperfection had to be accepted.  Some of her tribesmen could still despise her and Father.  She would have to confront her mother, Hex the Hacker.  There was a chance that Father did not wait, or he grew out of his affection for her; if he did care for her and they wed, he could still be slain like her father, Patwin, by some jealous suitors or enemies (so she would need to insure that he could handle such a thing).  If her own Mother lost her title to her, she had to accept that, as Hacker, nothing would be carved into her own flesh and her stories would have to be kept to herself.  Yet, none of this filled Mother with fear, for she now knew that the world was wide and strange enough to wander.  Should things fail to fall in her favor, she was free to pack her things and move on; some days would fill her with joy, and others pure bitterness, but, so long as she kept to some pattern that suited her well, she was free to remain for as long as she pleased.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kamaria let go of her Mother’s forehead, and stared very curiously at it.  They were back in their house, and Mother remained asleep on the ground.  After two blinks, Kammi ran a finger across her Mother’s brow and, then, pressed her little lips against her Mother’s forehead; with that, Kamaria wiggled her way out of her Mother’s arms and searched for her toys, to play until Mother was awake again.


	12. A Whiter Shade of Pale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://youtube.com/watch?v=OYIBSHzce8c)
> 
> This chapter. Admittedly, it's pretty ham-fisted. Even when compared to "How Insensitive". But, given the topic, I feel like bluntness is really needed.
> 
> Also, since the lastish few chapters for this fic are pretty thick and I've been feeling exhausted with balancing putting up new chapters for this and writing new stuff for "Cosmo is Good Dog" pretty much simultaneously, I think I'm going to slow down posting this for a bit. Maybe every other day or 2-3 days to post these chapters.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for continuing to click and read this story.

Drax the Destroyer hadn’t slept, but his body had rejected the typical routine of moongazing it had adopted throughout this trip.  This time, his mind sought to recall old wartime drills.  For the first time since he’d ceased any attempts to sleep, the warrior returned to his quarters and searched his belongings.  There was very little in the makeshift blanket he’d turned into a bag.  There was a bit of cloth (from one of his wife’s dresses), some of his daughter’s rocks on a string (so that he wouldn’t lose a single one), and two pairs of sheathed knives.  One rusted pair had belonged to Drago the Destroyer; they were neither the very pair that he’d carried when he’d won his livelihood, nor the pair he’d brought to his final battle, but they had been one of his.  The other pair was in excellent condition, having been polished and sharpened meticulously.  Prior to his offer to do combat with the Mutilator, Drax hadn’t seen any reason to take his destroying knives out.  His fists had performed an admirable enough job.  But, to handle a telepathic sadist?  There was no telling if he was prepared for such a thing.  Even his beloved father was humiliated by this woman, when she was an adolescent.  Although she was his senior by many thousands of phases, the Mutilator had retained a youthful, fit appearance.  The one advantage Drax had over her and her thousands upon thousands of phases of knowledge had to be his much larger size, but he knew well enough that relying solely on muscle tone could cost him his life.

Now, that was a thought that hadn’t occurred to him in so long.  When was the last time Drax the Destroyer had feared an opponent enough to believe they were capable of widowing his wife and depriving his daughter of a father?  No, this would not happen.  He would not allow it, let alone entertain brief thoughts of such a thing.

His strength, his training, and his instincts were all that he had to rely on.  His knives would be a last resort.  It wouldn’t have been honorable to have brought them out at the start of their match.  Drax had seen her spiked knuckles and felt her fingernails in his hand.  His hand--out of curiosity, Drax the Destroyer examined the hand that had been held by the Mutilator.  It had been...two days?  Two days, and, even with his relatively quick ability to heal, there were some faint, raised lines where her nails had been.  Even his own broken arm had healed quicker.  And these were mutilations administered while having her mind dampened by an external influence.  With that influence removed?  In a best case scenario, it would just take him longer to heal.

To settle his mind, Drax the Destroyer put away his other meagre belongings, stepped away from his cot, and practiced his knife-throwing.  Based on his brief scuffle with the Mutilator, it was evident that the woman had very good reaction-time.  If their fight came to a point, wherein his knives would have to be drawn, he could either attempt to use it as a brief distraction to purchase one or two seconds for himself and/or throw his weapons.  His aim would need to be true, to strike its target in one blow, because it was unlikely he’d have a second chance.

For two hundred times, Drax practiced throwing his knives into the metallic wall by his cramped quarters’ entrance.  First, simply throwing one.  Hands switched.  Then, throwing them one after the other in succession.  Hands switched.  All was repeated, with closed eyes.  Again, things were repeated with leaps.  Again, with turns.  The first knife was aimed at his eye level, and, every time after, Drax aimed for this same spot.  After that first strike, he’d never succeeded in striking this initial incision.  Always close, but never in the same place.  Close, but not exact, accuracy, paired with close precision.  This wasn’t enough.  The Destroyer repeated his exercise from the very beginning.

The results were displeasing.

Again.

And again.

And again.

This wasn’t conducive.  It wasn’t helping his confidence and it certainly wasn’t relaxing his uneasy mind.  With a disappointed click of his tongue, the warrior removed his knives from the wall and contemplated how to proceed with his preparations.  As was typical, his mind sought home and hearth.  Should Manaba mutilate him to the point of death, his loves were owed some farewell.  What a shame it was that the dispatch system had been demolished.  A video message would have sufficed.

What of writing a farewell with their pictorial system?  The Destroyer mentally mapped out how to compose such symbols, when he realized that he lacked proper writing utensils.  The Xandarians on this craft had an unusual device (called a...pen?), but they feared him too much to exchange even a single word with him.

For a brief second, Drax looked in his empty palms, but dismissed carving into himself.  His augmented cellular regeneration could erase his final message.

There was another option.  But, even for something like this, the Destroyer was hesitant to take it; with a sad shake of his head, the Destroyer tucked his knives into their sheaths, and, then, stuck those sheaths into the sides of boots.  Sticking them into his belt would have given Manaba a better chance to snatch them from him during their match.  Although such an odd placement would make drawing his weapons more cumbersome, its unusuality could make his knives’ appearance more unexpected and purchase more distraction time.  This tactic had yet to fail him.  With that, the Destroyer decided to work on his muscle tone.  Since there was nothing in this room that could offer enough resistance to provide a properly challenging workout, there wasn’t a need to remain in this room any longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Drenched in sweat and some unidentified blue liquid, Fox Valor removed himself from the underside of the video-communication device (or what remained of it) and took a swig from a normal-sized glass, placed closeby on the ground.  His face was covered in bandages and still purple bruises.  It took a second or two, before Drax the Destroyer was noticed.

“Fu--it’s a normal-sized glass, and it’s the only one I had today, I swear!”

Akimbo and head canted, the Destroyer sighed noncommittally.  “I have told you several times that my name is Drax the Destroyer and that you may only address me as such; I will overlook this oversight, if you allow me to lift that.”

The reedy, pale one glanced at his glass and held it forward.  An odd offering, received with a quirk of a brow.

“I’m not thirsty and I don’t put junk in my systems,” a point, behind Valor.  “That.  The communication device’s remains is what I’d like to lift.”

It was then that Fox dropped his drink and made a most unusual sound.  Something like a squeal, a gasp, and a hiccough at once.  It didn’t seem healthy to communicate with such bizarre onomatopoeias.

“Use your words, not your phlegm.”

“You know this thing weighs like eight-thousand grets,” Fox stammered, glassy eyes averted from the Destroyer’s.  Where was his gaze aimed?  From a glance, it was evident that they were fixed on the ground (specifically whereupon his beverage was spilt).

“I didn’t, but I see no reason why that should be a matter worth concern,” Drax admitted.  To be honest, what Fox had claimed sounded somewhat familiar.  A gret was one of the Xandarian units of measure that he and the others had been informed of.  There was some complex formula to convert weights in grets, but, like most mathematical formulas, it wasn’t something he’d deemed important enough to commit to memory.  Hence, eight-thousand grets meant nothing to him.

For whatever reason, this drew Fox back to re-engage in eye-contact.  “You’re like four-thousand grets.  And that machine’s, like,” a harried gesticulation to the telecommunication device.  “Like two of you.”

The Destroyer gave a firm shake of his head.  This assessment of Fox’s sounded grammatically-weird, but there was  some logic to it.  “It should provide an adequate challenge, then.  I have lifted heavier.”

In a rather over-the-top fashion, Valor’s head turned to the machine, to Drax, and the floor.  Repeat.  After a lengthy pause, “Alright, just don’t wreck the repairs I’ve made.”

Now this was something Drax hadn’t known previously of Fox Valor.  Prior to this incident, it appeared that his primary skillset consisted of cursing profusely, drinking, and saying offensive things.  There had to be another reason Valor was allowed passage upon this craft, but Drax had never ascertained that the ruddy little man was capable of doing something so useful.  The Destroyer’s head turned, to examine the progress Fox had made hitherto.

Alack.  There was still a gaping hole in the center.  The screen was still miserably cracked.  And, now, it appeared to be leaking some blue liquid.  By the time Drax turned back, the reedy man was partly out the door and cautiously craning his head both ways.  

“Drax the Destroyer,” Fox began.  “If Niels comes in, don’t tell him I let you mess with the machine.”

It seemed like an odd request, especially considering how Drax asked for no such permission from the Xandarian.  Nevertheless, the grey humanoid nodded and, then, put in a question of his own.  “Fox.  This device--when will it be functional again?”

The redhead turned back, and, for once, gave what appeared to be a crooked smile.  It didn’t appear especially happy, and his mouth remained closed.  Strangely, his brows were concaved in a sadder manner.  “You and that crazy bitch really did a number on it.  I’m gonna need to purchase some replacement parts on Xandar, but, even then, I don’t think it’ll ever work as well as it did.  That’s an older dispatch unit.  I don’t even know if I could find all the things I need for that machine anymore.”    This wasn’t something Drax the Destroyer wanted to hear, but he knew it was foolish to have expected otherwise.  Nevertheless, his gaze turned to the ground.

“You’ll probably get to talk to your family when we’re on Xandar, and that’s it,” Fox added with a tone unusual for even him.  “I’m real sorry.”

“It was Manaba and I that mutilated and destroyed this machine,” Drax intoned, without looking up at Valor.  There was something about that softened expression on Fox’s visage that filled him with something unspeakable.  What was it called?  Resentment?  It lacked the proper cause to be referred as such, since Valor hadn’t done something terrible.  Anger?  There was no passion in this feeling.  Whatever it was, it wasn’t for Valor.  “You’ve done nothing wrong.  For now.”

“Great,” Fox nasalized.  For whatever reason, Drax didn’t look away from the ground.  It wasn’t an especially interesting ground that compelled much attention.  Simply metal, with some liquid spilled on it.  And Fox’s shadow, in the doorway.  Valor’s shadow remained in the doorway, meaning he was remaining as well.  For what end?  Drax knew not.

“Look.  Drax the Destroyer,” Fox Valor addressed him properly.  His shadow seemed to grow in tandem with the sound of increasingly louder footfalls.  Why was Fox coming this way?  “I think you’re an asshole.  Hell, you might even be one of the worst guys I ever met.  And I’ve met a lotta bad guys.  This might come as a shock to you, but I don’t consider myself any good either.  It’s kind of a requirement in my field.  But even a black-hearted bastard like me kinda found it sweet how you’d talk with your family every night.”

Drax didn’t respond.  Fox simply stood there for a second longer, until he released a sigh; with that, Fox turned about-face and his shadow began to slink away.  It was then that a realization happened upon Drax.

“Valor,” the warrior called out, with a sharp, upward motion of his head.  “I have something to ask of you!”

This request halted Fox.  “Yeah?”

“I will be indebted to you, if you carry it out,” the Destroyer insisted.

“I don’t care about that,” Fox insisted, with a gesture and a wrinkle of his nose.  “You’re going through some tough shit.  Long as you don’t ask me to hide a corpse, I’m good as fried gold.”  Although Drax and the other representatives were taught metaphors, this wasn’t a phrase he was familiar with or even capable of guessing its meaning.

Nevertheless, “I am doing combat with Manaba the Mutilator.  It is very likely that I may not survive.  If that should happen, I’ll need to compose a farewell for my family; to do this, I’ll need a pen.”

“Fuck,” Fox exhaled most seriously.  What it meant in this context, Drax knew not.  “I can do one better.  You could tell me what you want to say to ‘em, and I could tell ‘em myself.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Drax was still Attor and his father was still the Destroyer, Drago used to tell his son about Dagon the Destroyer’s first encounter with the Xandarians.  Back then, Xandarian colonists and merchants used to wear odd outfits; although, through scientific analysis conducted many days ago, they’d found that the atmosphere was similar to that on Xandar (thus it was habitable for their kind), individuals were worried that the planet could carry some strange, new bacteria that they were not immunized to.

Never had Dagon and their kind seen clothes like the ones these invaders wore!  Full-body suits that covered the hands and legs!  An odd glass ball, that surrounded the face!  And a spine, that connected their glass head covering to a rectangular back hump!

Their species did not know that these were clothes and had, in fact, believed that they were a part of all Xandarians’ organic structure.  It wasn’t until Dagon’s first raid on a Xandarian colony that he’d learned otherwise and relayed this information to his compatriots.

His first target was a simple granary, where a year’s supply of the Xandarians’ food was stored.  (Storing food like this seemed cumbersome to Attor.  Why didn’t these Xandarians simply hunt when they needed to eat, instead of hoarding rice and drying out meats and vegetables in such overly elaborate rituals?)  Anyway, Dagon was crafty as he was patient; the old Destroyer covered himself in mud and laid low in some tall grass, waiting for the right opportunity to advance.  The granary was always guarded by a party of three-to-four men.  After some time, these men would switch roles with three-to-four other men; always, during these switches, the men would chat and, always, Dagon would advance a little closer.  By nightfall, the Xandarians guarding the granary would sleep at their station.  It was then that Dagon arose and killed his first Xandarians, only to find flesh under the cloth and blood as red as theirs.

Something about this story always made Attor wonder many things, but he would wait patiently until his father would ask him to repeat the story exactly (and he would) and, then, ask if he had some questions about the story.

“Father,” Attor began respectfully, without breaking eye-contact.  “If they bleed red blood like us, walk on two legs like us, and talk like us, what makes them so different than us?”

They’d always told these tales in the dead of night, when the brighter moons were hidden neath the horizon and all was nearly blackened, except for what was illuminated by their campfire.  Even in this darkness, Drago the Destroyer’s eyes still lit with a fire of their own.  There was always an intensity, even when he did not speak.  And Drago did not answer this particular question immediately, but he maintained eye-contact.  Attor did not dare speak and break this concentration of the Destroyer’s.

“They are greedy, carry diseases, and rely on overly powerful weaponry and bizarre devices.  Instead of honing their minds and bodies as we do,” Drago finally put in, after a long spell of silence.  “Their skin is paler than even our kind’s palest, and they have nothing but hate for our kind and our way of life.”  And Attor, feeling the powerful indignation in that last claim, didn’t dare to ask this question again or any of his others concerning Xandarians.

What sorts of things did he wonder about Xandarians?  Well, it was only the men that lived in these colonies and among the merchants.  This made young Attor wonder if Xandarians only had one gender.  If that wasn’t so, where were the women?  Did they accidentally kill off their females with the diseases they carried, or were they quarantined far away from these menfolk for their own safety?  Were these men able to have families, maybe have wives they never met and children that they supported from afar?  (Attor didn’t know how reproduction operated for his own kind, let alone for other species, so he didn’t know that the men needed some contact with the women in order to bear offspring.)  Were they all as mature as babies, even as adults?  Because why else would their kind remain on this planet and kill off his homeworld’s native animals with their over-hunting and their diseases?  Why else would they kill a species so similar to their own, with their addictive substances and horrible weaponry?

These questions, at first, didn’t make it very easy to join his Father’s raids on the Xandarians.  Usually, the Destroyer would dispatch any Xandarians in their way, but, occasionally, the Destroyer’s son would have to kill to defend himself.  (It was during these raids that Attor had taken his first kill.)  Yet, in time, these questions simply faded.  The killing became much easier and combat-laughter found him.  For their quest, at the time, seemed justified.  These Xandarians had killed his Mother and many of their species.  It was only right that they were slaughtered for what they’d done, and, according to his Father, it was why his long-gone Mother had given her son his name.  Attor, poison for the Xandarians.  She’d given birth to her means of vengeance, and, as her son, he carried it out.

That was, until the day that most of the colonists had abruptly left.  

It was on this day that the merchants showed a terrifying video record to everyone in his tribe, imploring for their cooperation.  Ronan the Accuser, from a tribe beyond the stars, was slaughtering Xandarians and any that associated with them. Regardless of their enmity, as a consequence of the Xandarians’ living on their planet for many thousands of phases, this planet and its inhabitants were also in danger.  With the one called Ronan were the terrifying daughters of Thanos, faster and crueler than even the more terrifying warriors among them.  They carried technology even more frightening than Xandarian guns.  Bombs that could turn people into dust, swords that could change lengths, biological modification that could allow one to regrow full limbs.

Most in his tribe were horrified by this video, but many doubted such a threat could come to their planet.  What had impacted Drax, on that day, was not this news.  This video was still like a fantasy, that had yet to touch their waking reality.  What truly stuck with him, in a manner of speaking, was the way that these merchants referred to this world their home.  How, all of a sudden, this planet they poisoned and nearly drove into extinction was something that they cared of all along.

It had been a very long time since Drax the Destroyer had thought of his old childhood questions concerning the Xandarians, but, now, they were coming terribly clear to him as he sat, on the ground, opposite Fox Valor.  Valor had a paper in front of him, pen in one hand, and a bottle of that favored liquid of his in his other.

“I have told you I don’t put junk in my systems,” the Destroyer reminded the redhead.

“Yeah?  Well, you look like you could use a swig of junk in your systems,” Valor insisted with an extra shake of that bottle.  “We’ve been here for a coupla hours and you still can’t think of what to say to your family.  This stuff here loosens lips, brings out the honesty in people.”

Drax the Destroyer was older and, he used to think, much wiser than he was as a child.  But the events of the past few hours had revealed some things in him.  Never did he think he’d lose faith in the Peacemaker and never did he think he’d find something almost admirable about Fox Valor.  Yet, here it all was.

Perhaps, now, this offer wasn’t some attempt to manipulate him, as Valor’s kind had done with his people for many thousands of phases; perhaps there was sincerity to it.

With some hesitance, Drax grasped the bottle’s neck, brought it close to his mouth, and took a drink.  Almost immediately, that liquid was spat back out.  Unintentionally, on Valor’s face.

With a disgusted expression, the ruddy man wiped his own face with his sleeves.  “Did you even bother to swallow?”

“It tastes like a poison,” the Destroyer immediately rationalized.  “Like it’s lit my insides on fire.”

“You mean that like a metaphor,” Fox hazarded a guess.  The term was a little familiar.  Drax had vaguely remembered learning of it, and talking about it with Kamaria afterwards (she was very curious about many things, and that was no exception); he did not, however, recall what it exactly meant.  It probably showed on his blank expression, because Fox sighed and, then, further clarified his point.

“You’ve never actually had your insides on fire,” the Xandarian insisted.  “And that’s definitely not lighting them up.”  Valor had a point, but the stuff still tasted strange.  “It’s kind of an acquired taste.  You have to get used to it.”

“I have to drink more of it, to stop disliking its flavor,” Drax hypothesized.

“Yup.  Sooner you get started, sooner you can get it done.”  Sounded like a fallacy, but Drax needed to compose some farewell to his family before he did combat with the Mutilator.  A level of honesty needed to be reached quicker and, according to Valor, this was the means of doing it.  With his nose plugged, the Destroyer shoved the bottle’s opening in his mouth and, in one long swig, emptied its contents.

With a cough, the container was removed and brusquely thrown against the wall; the shoddy glass-thing shattered on impact, but produced a most interesting sound.

And, Drax waited for the honesty to come forth (his lips were already loose, so he saw no point in awaiting for that).  After a pause, “how does honesty feel, when it’s come forth?”

Valor didn’t immediately respond, but, instead, became very furtive.

“You lied, then,” was the warrior’s dispassionate response.  Drax the Destroyer didn’t seem too surprised by this revelation.  Honestly, there were only so many times someone could be lied to and manipulated and have it affect them.  At this point, it felt as natural as the bitter taste in the back of his mouth.  The sensation wasn’t pleasant, but it was no longer out of the ordinary.

“Gimme a sec.  I’m tryin’a figure how to explain it.”  Valor was doing a favor for the Destroyer; at the least, he was owed this brief, bizarre request.

After a second, the Destroyer folded his arms and made his inquiry.  “Well?”

“Frickin’ Worldmind, you--”

“I respected your unusual request, and, now, I demand an answer,” Drax calmly insisted, with a knowing tip of the shoulders.  It only seemed fair that he was given a response.

“Fuck,” was Fox’s only response.  And again.  And again.  After some profuse shaking of his head, the smaller man asked, “you gonna destroy me if I say we need more to drink?”

“I am being honest, as are you.  We have no further need for the stuff.”

“It’s multi-purpose.  Makes you more honest when you need it, and better able to handle shit like this.”  It was evident Fox was becoming immensely exasperated by this, and he required some form of mercy.  

With a hesitant nod, Drax noted, “I won’t, but there’s nothing stopping Manaba from trying; I’m certain, however, that she’d attempt to kill us both with or without this provocation.”

One thing led to another, with consuming more of Fox’s stash (which was surprisingly vast and hidden in a cavity of the dispatch machine).  As Valor had recommended, Drax drank slower and, as Valor had promised, the stuff became more tolerable.  After the third bottle they’d consumed, the burning sensation Drax felt in his throat obtained an almost soothing quality.  His senses felt considerably duller, but there was something calming to be found in this warm, safe surrender.  Yet, his thoughts always went back to Manaba and his family.

It was sometime after they’d cracked open the fifth bottle, Fox began to ramble.  “When I was a kid, I always wan’ed t’geddoutta Xandar and see the stars.  You know?  I wan’ned t’kissme some green women an’ged stupidly rich.  How the fuck’d I end up here?”

Drax didn’t know, he had no idea, and he didn’t know why Valor asked him.  Nevertheless, another bottle went through his system.  He didn’t know why, but he was laughing a little now.  Yet it made perfect sense.  Up was down, left was right, the Peacemaker was terrible and so was everyone else, and he needed to kill Manaba to see his family again.  Why did he need a reason to laugh anymore?  “I can only think of Manaba.  If I killed her, I wouldn’t need to write a farewell for my...for my beautiful wife and my adorable daughter.  And you wouldn’t be here.”

With his head bobbing, Fox gave a side-glance and a bizarre smile.  “Well, the fuck’s stoppin’ you?  You should just sneak in’er room now an’,” he pointed his finger at Drax most unusually.  Most of his fist was shut, save for the finger on top and his raised thumb.  With a lazy flop, his thumb was lowered.  “Blam.  Shood’er with a gun.  Between the eyes.  Like that.  ‘Cept with a gun.  An’not fingers.”

With a very profuse shake of his head, the Destroyer responded, “I shouldn’t.  That would be dishonorable.”

And, terribly abruptly, Fox joined in the laughter.  “Th’fuck’s honor?  Honor’s something you make up in your head.”

“That can’t be true,” Drax interjected.  “Everyone speaks of honor.”  Somehow that made it true, right?

Right?

“People make up a lotta weird shit.  To make ‘em feel more civilized, an’ less like animals with opposable thumbs.  We quan’ify everything and act like everything’s got a meaning and purpose, when it’s just us tryin’a make ourselves feel significant and big.  Then we feel things we don’t know or run in’no crap we can’t deal with, and we realize it’s just us trying to control shit we can’t--”  Drax waited for Fox to continue his rant, but, after that last phrase, the Xandarian simply stared at the bottom of his bottle.  Well.  This certainly sounded more honest, albeit subtly surprising.

“I did not know we were a we,” Drax remarked.  “I believed we were a different species.”

“Damn straight we’re a ‘we’,” Fox announced; then, as if to add punctuation, he tossed his bottle into the same wall the Destroyer had thrown his.  Pathetically, the thing didn’t smash on contact and, instead, landed with a heavy  _ thunk _ .  This didn’t seem to dampen his enthusiasm.  “Damn straight.  You ever hear the Perlman theory?”

Talking of hypothetical matters while drinking?  Was this a common part of this ritual?  “No,” said with a simple shake of the head.  “I have not.”

“Awright,” as if some permission was granted, Fox opened up both of his hands and, with fingers splayed, began swinging them about.  The motions reminded Drax of some battle-axes.  “So, there’re a lot of planets with humanoidal types, like--wait, you know what humanoidal means?”

Rather modestly, the Destroyer nodded.  Humans were something of legends, said to have an appearance similar to Xandarians (mind, according to the Xandarians).  None of his kind had seen an actual human, they believed, but knowledge of this species had been heard of.  They were small, weak, and came in shades of brown and/or pink.  According to hearsay, they were also very similar to his kind.  They were said to possess two legs, two arms, vital organs, etcetera.  For lack of a better descriptor for his kind, he’d heard Xandarians refer to the native people of his planet as ‘humanoidal’.

“Ok.  So a lotta planets have their own bipedal humanoids.  Some people say they’re different species because their bodily functions are weird or they have scales or extra genitals in their armpits.  But Perlman theory says fuck that, everyone’s some kinda hum-some kinda human.  It’s just the atmosphere, or the history, or some planet conditions that make make the evolution of a planet’s humans different than another’s.”  This sounded rather complex, but, oddly enough, Drax understood it far better than the complex mathematical formulations for converting time tables.  But there was something about this statement that, instead of providing clarification, raised more questions.

Now that the Destroyer thought of it, there had to be other humanoidals on other planets; he’d seen video records of very dangerous, non-Xandarian humanoids.  Yet, only now was the thought of other humanoidals on other planets something of fascination.  Perhaps it was the drink in him, or a consequence of the bizarre chain of events that had befallen him, but he’d felt some very unusual sense of...something well in him.  It was the same feeling he’d felt when he’d thought of home and when he’d spoken to Fox mere moments ago.  Yet, its name wasn’t coming to him.

Perhaps, now, Drax had someone to ask what it was.  “Fox.  What is it called when you wish to leave wherever it is you are?”

The question seemed to confuse the Xandarian, but it didn’t cease his gesticulations or his slowing chatter.  “What?  Because you hate where you are?  Or you want to go see something else?”

The Destroyer broke away eye-contact and was silent, to think on which it was.  “Why are they mutually exclusive?”

“Ha,” was Valor’s immediate response.  Less a proper response and more a tick.  “I guessidoesn’t haftabe.”  Briefly, his hands rubbed together as if in anticipation of something; they did this, until ending in an abrupt clap. “Lotsa places have names for that, but I think you’re talkin’ ‘bout something called wanderlust.”

Wanderlust.  The term was unfamiliar, but the etymology made sense.  To lust was to desire something greatly.  Wandering was to move about aimlessly.  That last part didn’t sound right, though.  “I do not lust to move about aimlessly, Valor; I wish to move with purpose.”

“Yeah, what purpose?”

A careful pause.  Moments ago, the Destroyer felt he knew the answer.  Now?  How it eluded him!  Everything had made sense, and it still did, but it also didn’t.  Manaba was terrible and so was everyone else, up was left, right was down, he and Valor were animals with opposable thumbs that felt things they didn’t know, and they were all human.

They were all human.

Why was that, again?  Was it merely because Perlman said so?  “How are we all human again?”

“We might be closely related,” Fox put in.  “No solid evidence yet, but our DNA could be close.  Like if-we-fucked-we’d-maybe-produce-a-baby-close.  At least.”  There was an unusual pause, broken a little too late by a, “not like we-us--like you and me.  Like-like a male and a female, one from my kind and one from yours. Like that kind of related.”

Drax’s response was far less complex.  “You look nothing like my family.”

“Fff,” Valor began to laugh.  “No I mean like phyla or whatever.  Like, you know when the Xandarians first came to your planet?  Buncha your planet’s native humanoids began dying, causa some illnesses the first guys were carrying and immune to.  And it lasted like a generation, before you guys got used to it.  There aren’t a lotta diseases that cross species, and the shit we gave you guys doesn’t typically do that.  So, you and me, might be more genetically alike than we suspect.”

Drax tried rather hard to listen and understand this bizarre raving, but, when the diseases were brought up so flippantly, he couldn’t help but shut down and fixate on that.

Disease.

Disease.

“Shit, Destroyer.  You’re lookin’ real serio--more serious than usual.”  Drax couldn’t see his own face, so he simply took Valor’s word for it.

Rather quietly, “My mother was killed by one of your diseases.  Before I was born.”

Valor proceeded to repeat a single word, in an odd intonation of a prayer.  The word was ‘shit’.  Shit.  Shit.  Was it also a multipurpose word?  A prayer and something to state when upset?  Or, perhaps, were those what Xandarian prayers were?

Speaking of multipurpose, weren’t they trying to compose a letter for his family?  Yes.  That was a fine question to bring up.  “Valor, we have strayed far from the intended purpose of this assembling; we must write a farewell to my family.”  But Valor didn’t pick up his pen once again; instead, very confusingly, the man stood up and dug in the machine’s cavity for another bottle.  The Destroyer remained where he sat, attempting to parse through many things.  Everything and nothing made sense.  He had a purpose, didn’t he?  A few moments ago, this was something he was very certain of.  They were composing a farewell for his family.

No.  He was leaving someplace he hated.

No.  He’d wanted to go out and see something outside of home.

No.  He’d wanted to remain home.

No.   He’d wanted to reach Xandar and speak with his family.

No.  He’d wanted to murder the Mutilator.

No.  He wanted to throw up.  Very badly.

Yes.  That last thing seemed very doable.

The Destroyer stood, found a garbage receptacle by the doorframe, and emptied his stomach.  The act did nothing to relieve his doubt.  What Fox had to say didn’t help either.

“You still really frickin’ hate me, don’t you!?!”

The Destroyer searched his head, to think of some objection he could pose to this odd statement that seemed to come from nowhere.  Surely, somebody decent would no longer find it in them to despise another who shared some drink with him and offered to help him transmit some farewell to his beloved family.  That was the way that this sort of thing was meant to work, right?  But, try as he could, he felt his mind emptied.  Perhaps the drink had been removed from his systems too soon.

None of this had erased the horrid things Valor had said and done.  They certainly added two favorable actions to his history, but they didn’t guarantee that he’d improved.  The Destroyer wasn’t even certain that Valor could speak his tribe’s dialect and carry out this promise (since his wife most definitely didn’t understand a word of Xandarian), and didn’t know why he didn’t think to ask that.

For whatever reason, he’d believed that Valor was capable of it.

“That-that’s why you're acting weird.  That’s why you look at me all weird, even when we’re having a friendly drink.  Well, I didn’t sign up for this shit,” Valor claimed in a surprisingly even tone.  It wasn’t known if his expression matched his tone, and Drax didn’t turn to find out.

The Destroyer didn’t know the entirety of Fox’s history, so he could not consider himself qualified enough to agree or disagree with this claim.

“I didn’t ask to have all this shit a buncha other guys did tacked on me.”   
  


“I don’t know anyone who would,” Drax had to interject.  “Why feel guilty about something you hadn’t done?”

“Fuck, because a buncha you guys are holding this stuff against me personally.”  The Destroyer sought to search himself and find some objection, but, no, he couldn’t find it in him.  There was no lie in that statement.  For some minutes, there was a simple silence.  A simple silence and the faint noise of the Destroyer’s home planet, which was only petering away into nothing.

But he was finding it very hard to empathize with this incredibly irrational self-indulgence.  “My mother is dead, through no fault of yours.  Though I find it distasteful that you talk of the disease that killed her so casually, I won’t hold that against you either.” Mostly.  Somewhat.  Well, Drax would at least make an effort to cease this practice, personally.  At least as much as he could.  But this didn’t feel like enough.  There was still something about this that made him especially uneasy.  Although his head was emptied, words still flowed from out of his mouth and, as he spoke, his feelings became more apparent to him.  “But you’d said you only left Xandar to kiss women of a different skin pigmentation than your own and to accumulate wealth.  How did you intend to do this?”

Was it right to have asked this from a man who was trying to help him?  The Destroyer doubted this, but, for this alliance to work, right now, he knew that this was something he had to know.

“I--it’s a dumb kid’s dream.  You never think how you’ll get something done, you--you kind of just want to do it.”

“How did you attempt to accomplish this end in your adulthood?”

Fox said nothing, for once.  The clinking of the bottles behind Drax grew louder, but he projected his voice to speak over it.  “You had said that people in your profession are not good; you became somebody terrible, and participated in exploiting my planet’s resources and people for your own ends.”

The clinking of the bottles stopped there.  “I’m tryin’a help you.  Why are you getting so high and mighty about this?  Not like you’re that great’a’guy neither.”  To this, the Destroyer had no answer.  All of this was very true.  “Would you rather not take my help, thinkin’ I’m just going to exploit you?”

The Destroyer paused, but did not leave that question unanswered.  “There is nobody that I can trust on this craft. I would ask Niels, but I have not yet told him that I will do combat with the Mutilator and he would most likely stop our match before it would begin; I cannot ask other crew members because, thus far, I have not approached them and none have spoken with me.  Other than you.”

“So I’m a last resort?”  His voice sounded small.  Less indignant.  The Destroyer could have sworn there was a tinge of something in that intonation.  Something sad.  But was it regret or self-pity?

After mentally assessing the other options, the Destroyer had to nod his head.  “If it were for anything else, I would do what I’ve always done and rely on my own efforts.”  With some hesitance, the Destroyer added, “And if it weren’t for you, I don’t even think I would have had to consort with this ordeal.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Valor exclaimed.  “Don’t you dare blame this on me.  You and that bitch broke that machine and you and that bitch chose to duke it out.”

“Manaba demolished the machine because of the lies you’d spoken of her,” Drax reminded Valor.

“Because you hadda go and tell her!”  This wasn’t something Drax could simply let lie.  In a single motion, he turned and stood, livid.  There, in front of him, did not stand some mighty foe to be felled, but a small, ruddy man with reddened eyes, a wet face, and an incredibly, increasingly snotty nose.  Valor flinched momentarily, upon watching the other man rise, but he put on a stern expression and did not move from his spot.  “Practically nobody trusts me on this shitshow.  And the one time I stick my neck out for one of you--I don’t know why I bothered.”

“I am uncertain of how things work on Xandar,” Drax began, searching for some pity he could muster for this utterly pathetic person but finding none.  “But, among our tribes, there is a consequence for every wrong that is done.  My tribe believes that our spirit reveals itself in the actions and manners that we undertake, and that we are able to witness the spirit of others in their conduct.  Decency is rewarded and wrongful acts are punished.  Murder is repaid with revenge and lies with honesty.  We try to act justly.”

“Bullshit,” Fox called, with some very vigorous pointing.  “That eye for an eye stuff ain’t just!  It’s just a buncha guys lookin’ for reasons to kill guys they hate!  An’ an’--how do you think that works out, with every guy lookin’ t’kill whoever killed someone?  That’s like everyone!  How the fuck’s anyone still alive on your planet?  An’--an’ what about the loved ones of some guy that got killed outta revenge?  Was it just that they lost a relative, even though they didn’t do anything wrong?”

“No,” the Destroyer had to admit.

Valor remained standing for some moments longer, before he stepped aside, wiped his face into his sleeve, and stomped off.  “I’m outta here.  You go kill each other, you fuckers, but don’t blame me for it; and you might as well get some sleep, before you die or you kill someone else.  Not sleeping will drive you even more nuts.”

This phrase made no sense to Drax, but he kept his eyes on Fox and insisted, “I can’t sleep over the sound of my homeworld turning on its axis.”

This stopped Fox, just as he was about to cross the threshold and take leave of this place.  “The fuck you talkin’ about?”

“I haven’t been able to sleep over the loud din of my home planet at night,” the Destroyer rephrased his explanation.

Valor stared, sneering and confused.  “Seriously, get some sleep.  You’re hearing things.  Except for the hum of the machines, footsteps, and people talkin’, this place’s been dead silent.”

The Destroyer remained fixated on the doorway, even long after the Xandarian took his leave of this room; as he stood, he tried, once more, to make sense of things.

The sound he’d heard had come from outside of this craft, and it was immense.

This meant one of two things.  Either Fox was deaf or Drax the Destroyer was being driven mad.  But, if the Destroyer could not rely on his own senses, what was there on this craft that he could trust?

It was the equivalent of some Xandarian hours before the Destroyer finally moved from his spot and bent over the piece of paper and pen Fox Valor had left behind.  As was expected, there was nothing on the paper.  Almost mechanically, the warrior sat on the ground and contemplated what to tell his family.

Only now was the true emptiness of this paper and the solitary nature of this pen noticeable to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Perlman theory is named for Nicole Perlman.


	13. Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://youtube.com/watch?v=P2xLyxPuRgY)
> 
> This chapter is a little more relaxing than the previous ones. Promise.

There was much the Destroyer wished to tell his wife and daughter.  He’d longed to apologize for failing to find the Moondragon for his child, but such was so terribly out of his nature that even thinking of doing such a thing produced a pang in his head.  Perhaps it would be of interest for his wife and daughter to learn the Peacemaker’s true nature?  Or, perhaps, they were better off not knowing?

More often than not, his thoughts went to his wife and what was owed to her.  

What was it that was owed to her?  Much.  His life, his livelihood, his happiness, everything that made him who he was was only by her virtues, her wisdom, and her graces.  What could someone like him give to the woman who’d saved him from a lifetime of loneliness?

The Destroyer stared curiously at the pen Valor had left behind.  How was such a thing meant to be held?  Leaning forward, Drax wrapped his fingers around the thing as one would a knife.  While his people had developed a system of glyphs and the Destroyer was taught how to write in the Xandarian alphabet, none of those symbols appeared in his mind’s eye and formed a coherent message of farewell to his sweet wife and their tiny daughter.  It was with hesitation that the tip of the pen was pressed against the paper.

How would this paper be delivered to his family, now that Drax was certain he had absolutely no allies on this craft?  Perhaps...no.  Well.  It was worth a try.

The Destroyer slid the tip of the pen down, and directed its movements in whatever manner felt very right at the time.  The straight-line developed into a curve, which contained regrets that could not be sufficiently expressed in any other way.  The curve abruptly stopped where it was and, then, jumped up excitedly.  Mirroring the other half, the line rushed downwards and met where it had started.

Yes.

This was sufficient.

Gingerly, the Destroyer lifted up that piece of paper, folded it, and tucked it away in his pocket.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Mutilator’s assigned quarters weren’t especially far from the communications’ room.  Drax the Destroyer was feeling both dulled but powerful now, as one often felt after performing many weight-lifting reps.  It wouldn’t have been a struggle now, to simply break into her room and murder his foe in her sleep.  But even in the hazy afterimage of his repetitions, such an underhanded tactic brought pangs to his stomach and his head.  His head told him it was because such a thing was dishonorable.

But what honor, to an honorless warrior like him?  At worst, it served as a handicap that stopped his one guarantee to see his family once more.

At best?  He couldn’t say what it was, but it felt right at the time.  As the Destroyer had been making his way down the corridor, his eyes had been trained on his feet.  They had a rhythm of his own, which he hadn’t been aware of.  A sort of brusque, unmeasured metre.  Yet there was a steadiness in this irregular pace, something warming and palliative in its repetitions.

As the Destroyer was savoring this absurdly simple pleasure, abruptly, another feeling burst in.  Well, less of a feeling and more of a compulsion.  Every fibre in his neck muscles burned.  His eyes itched, to the point of causing him to blink profusely (but not to water).  His legs took one more step, before stopping where they were.  The thought of continuing his walk hadn’t occurred to him.

Weary, the Destroyer obeyed his body’s impulses and looked up.

At the very end of the hallway stood the Peacemaker.  There was no happy look, as she’d often possessed on this journey.  The wrinkled woman simply stood, in a stiff manner, with her hands balled up into fists and at her sides.  Even in the dim lighting of this passageway and against the darkness of her skin-pigmentation, her eyes lit with a bioluminescence of their own.  The Destroyer had seen eyes comparable to the red lake near his home, eyes bright as the stars, and eyes that burned like flames.  But the Peacemaker’s eyes, in this moment, were the first that he’d seen that were comparable to the vastness and sacred age of his homeworld’s moons when they were full in and in unison.

The disgraced warrior stood his ground and simply stared back, furrowing his brows and attempting to summon forth an intensity of his own.  His could never match that of the Peacemaker, who was so ancient and wise, but this did not cease his choice.  As he looked down at the wrinkly, little woman, words formed in his head.  But there was something most unusual about the words and their shapes, something unfamiliar yet familiar at once.

**_I could bind her, until we reach Xandar._ **

**_You could share one last word with your family,_ **

**_Before I’d let her loose once more._ **

After a careful pause, the Destroyer shook his head.

The Peacemaker received his answer with a blink, and, then, turned away.

**_Do you know what a burden it is, Drago?_ **

**_To see all of the worlds in their terrible majesty,_ **

**_To speak a forgotten language,_ **

**_To feel time slipping away with each blink,_ **

**_To do all of this alone?_ **

The Destroyer said and thought nothing, but his eyes remained transfixed upon the Peacemaker’s features.

**_Do you still recall what the world was like, Drago?_ **

**_The world before the Xandarians, before the warring?_ **

The Destroyer politely shook his head and a miasma consumed his mind.  His eyes still perceived the Peacemaker, yet, concurrently, they also saw into another dimension.  There were people, as he knew them, except they appeared to shine.  The world was his homeworld, but more colorful.  There was no talking, but the people regarded one another and immediately understood what was being communicated.  Simply while taking this sight in, Drax felt himself coalesce.  His spirit was dissolving, yet it felt as if it was joining with a greater unity.  Everyone’s mind was instantly accessible.  From the unborn children that were yet to come into this world to the long-gone ancients, their every emotion and thought, every action and intention was made clear.  People fought, and enjoyed it as they still did in his homeworld, but there was something different.  It looked very much like sparring, done to educate rather than to assert dominance.

For once, he did not feel so alone; yet, he knew well that remaining too long in this memory would produce perils of its own.

“That is not the world we live in, Peacemaker.  And it can never return to that state.”

With that, the Destroyer felt his neck fibers contract.  His head was clear once more and he was free to journey onwards.  So, he took some steps around the Peacemaker and was poised to move on.

Without looking up or speaking another word, the Peacemaker posed a question.

**_What happened, Drago?_ **

**_For the longest time, I’d believed it was the Xandarians’_ **

**_Presence that upset our planet’s natural order,_ **

**_But now I--I sense it was already shifting._ **

**_The world now is merely a collection of echoes,_ **

**_A drop of the potential it had once reached._ **

**_Drago.  You heard the world this night._ **

**_You believe it is madness, but it is not._ **

**_That is the sound, captured in our homeworld’s radiation._ **

**_It was always like that, Drago._ **

**_Everyone emits levels of radiation, and our kind_ **

**_Was once able to perceive all of it and read its meaning._ **

**_Although some still possess telepathic gifts,_ **

**_They are weaker compared to what they once were._ **

**_In order for the younger psychics to utilize their abilities, they must strain._ **

**_It wasn’t so before._ **

**_It was so simple._ **

**_Why did it change?_ **

The Destroyer looked down once again and temporarily ceased his progress; he understood and did not understand what she’d tried to say, and he did not believe a word of it.  Momentarily, his mind went back to his curious little Kamaria.  He adored his curious Little One, but there were times when her abundant questions would overwhelm even a tireless Destroyer.  What was done, in situations such as this?

Like in those cases, the Destroyer spoke truthfully, “I know not.”

The Peacemaker did not try to use her influences to keep his spirit and body tethered there any longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With the few belongings the Destroyer had, wrapped in a blanket, the Destroyer awaited for his foe to awaken; with a straight back, he sat by her doorway and thought of nothing but their match.

His eyes remained trained on his feet, but they were undisciplined.  His vision was becoming blurry and heavy.  To soothe his eyes, he would blink.  But, as time wore on, the time he’d expend upon his blinks grew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is no other feeling in any world like having a knife pressed against one’s throat.  The Destroyer found it was much like a concentrated sting.  Thankfully, whoever this assailant was, they did not dare to use his knives on him.  Instead, one of his father’s rusted, worn-down blades was pressed just underneath his chin.

Whoever this was, they had shaky hands.  Shaky hands, and they’d paused for too long.  Bad form for this sort of thing they were attempting.

Guesstimating how his assailant was slouching over him (by the sound of their breathing and the angle of his father’s blade), the Destroyer swiftly raised his hands and wrapped them about his enemy’s throat.  The choking sounds were almost immediate and very feminine.  Cowardly and loudly, his enemy dropped his father’s weapons.  This was not a warrior he was facing.

His eyes opened and, before him, was slouched Adahy.

“When I let go of your throat, Adahy, you will tell me why you’ve made an attempt on my life,” the Destroyer atonally informed her.  There was nothing polite hidden in this statement, nor was there any indication that this was a request.  Nevertheless, Adahy nodded and accepted his terms.

As was promised, Drax removed his hands from her throat.  She took some breaths and, then, began to carry out her end of the bargain.  “Destroyer.  Do you know Icarus?”

The Destroyer winced, and, then, shook his head.  It was during this time, as he shook his head, that the tears in Adahy’s eyes became more apparent.

“Icarus was my father; he was a shitty-ass deadbeat, who ditched his family, but he was still my Dad,” an increasingly impassioned Adahy claimed.  “He left our tribe, joined yours, and took up the name Daedelus the Destroyer.  I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

The Destroyer blinked and, then, searched her face for any features he’d found on his childhood enemy’s.  It had been a while.  Any remembrance of Daedelus’ visage had warped.  His nose grew several sizes, his chin was softened, and his eyes more hateful.  As the Destroyer looked, he did find these same features, but they appeared to make more sense on her face and her proportions were much less despicable.  “Yes.  He murdered my father, and I him.  But you’ve never killed anyone, have you?”

Breathing more heavily and blinking away tears, Adahy shuddered and tried to remain firm.  “I promised my mother I’d get you; I promised.”

Without looking away, the Destroyer reached by Adahy’s feet and drew his father’s blade; without hands shaking, he held the knife by the blade and, with the handle facing his nemesis’ child, lifted it up to Adahy.  “You know what you must do, then.”

This did not strengthen her resolve.  Instead, Adahy placed her hands over her face and turned away.  “I--I--I know, but...but how can anyone do this?  Just...just thinking of doing this feels bad!  I--I don’t know if I can go through with it…”  Anything else she tried to say after this claim dissolved into incoherent, but loud blubbering.

Not knowing what else to do, the Destroyer placed a hand on her shoulder.  The hand remained as long as Adahy remained there (which was a surprisingly long amount of time), until she silently turned about-face and took her leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a pretty busy week ahead of me, and I signed up to do some really exciting, open writing challenges on this site, so I might be a while before I post this fic's next chapter but I will keep on updating this fic until all of the chapters are up. To make time for the other writing challenges I've signed up for, I will, however, be taking a break from writing "Cosmo is Good Dog".
> 
> The next chapter is a pretty big one.


	14. I Know that You Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://youtube.com/watch?v=NSBpybTBI5w)
> 
> To whom it may concern: I've been thinking. There's some ideas that I have, which I really want to write and, even though I've had all 18 chapters of this written for a while, it's taken up more time than I've expected to post it at fairly reasonable speeds. So, today, I'm ripping off the bandage and just posting the rest of this tonight.
> 
> If I ever do get around to writing its sequels, I think changing the pacing would affect the spirit of this fic too much. So, instead, I think I'd spend a good long time writing it and, then, posting all of its chapters in one fell swoop, rather than posting a bit every week.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for clicking to read this. Enjoy.

Needless to say, Drax the Destroyer did not sleep for a moment longer; instead, he neatly put his things away and, with his back straight, sat cross-legged and awaited his foe.

It was fairly soon after his encounter with the daughter of his father’s enemy that a powerful stench wafted through the hall, much like an unpleasant breeze.  As the stench became more pronounced, a heavy thudding grew.  1-2, 1-2.  Steadily rhythmic.  Judging by the evenness of the beats, the Destroyer came to a fair guess of what they would bring; he simply moved to turn his head in the direction of these stimulus, but nothing more.

Mere moments after Drax had completed this motion, there was a man at the end of the hall.  The  _ Harbinger _ ’s captain.  His expression seemed agitated and his posture leaned forward, but such was normal for him.  What absorbed the attentions of the Destroyer was the object held in this man’s hand, made all the more apparent as Niels raised out that arm and slowly trudged over.

It was an inelegant piece, bent like a stick and a dull grey like the metal of the craft’s walls.  Niel’s fingers twisted about an odd section jutting from the bottom, a a squarish extension of this bottom, and a triangular bit on the top.  The weapon bore a hole, which faced the Destroyer directly, and seemed to make eye contact.

The Destroyer did not blink once, as an untrembling Niels brought this eye close to the grey man’s forehead.  But his stomach refused to remain immobile, recoiling in memory of a childhood wound.

“This the only way I can talk to you, Mr. the Destroyer?”  Niels voice was soft, but unusually harsh.  “This the only way I gotta talk so you’ll actually listen?  Since just talking civilly doesn’t work?”

Drax said nothing in return.

The other man slowly bent on one knee, without removing his firearm, and looked his target in the eye.  “A booze-soaked Fox came inna my room, told me you and Manaba were gonna kill each other before he threw up on me; he said you’re losing it.  All this true?”

Drax said nothing once more.

“Drax the Destroyer, are you out of your mind?  Were you planning on killing that woman on my ship and hiding it from me?”

Drax’s response.  Simple, but true.  As always.  “Perhaps.  And if I needed to.  Then, yes.”

Niels’ other hand quickly sprung, carefully avoiding to dig nails into the Destroyer’s shoulder.  “Drax, didn’t I ask you to tell me when shit like that goes on?  You shoulda told me about Fox before you busted him up!  And when Manaba broke the dispatcher, you could’ve told me and I could’ve done something.”

Title omission and a bad word. The Destroyer did not take time to acknowledge them, not this time.  “You had said only when it concerns your crew.  The Mutilator isn’t a part of your crew.”

“We’re supposed to be on the same team, all of us; we’re supposed to be working together to save our planet!”  His voice had grown louder, even behind gritted teeth.  “This isn’t us against you and your kind, but you’re making it that.”

This statement of Grendelaar’s was enough to inspire the Destroyer into grabbing a hold of the captain’s weapon and, with pressure from his larger fingers, bend the extended eye-stalk skywards.  Niels stood and stepped back, slowly, staring at his weapon with even more irritated, wide eyes.  “Grendalaar.  It has always been that.  It has always been me against the other representatives against you and your kind.  I have had to swallow much pride to join the envoy, to consort with your self-righteousness and egotism disguised as concern for a planet you helped endanger.  I am only here to deliver an apology that I will not be sincere about, in order to obtain weapons.  I have never trusted you and what respect I had has long dissipated when I heard you chose to teach us the simple dialect of your language.  I even question the necessity of this alliance, and wonder why we do not simply make a deal with Ronan and the Kree as we have a common enemy in Xandar.”

Hastily, Niels threw his firearm to the ground and pulled out a second, smaller piece from the inside of his jacket.  “Fox was right.  You’re nuts; you don’t know what you’re saying.  The Kree hates any lifeform weaker than themselves and their crackpot extremists wanted to eliminate all Xandarian life--all men, women, and children; they’ve disavowed that position, so now it’s only Ronan insane enough to still be doing that.  The fuck makes you think Ronan and his murder bunch would see you as genetically equal?  Even if he did agree to that alliance, what makes you think he wouldn’t turn on your kind?”

“And why should I believe you and your kind will not turn on us, once the threat of Ronan the Accuser has been resolved?  Would you be able to guarantee that my people will not be slaughtered by yours, by your weapons, by your drugs, by your toxic influence, or by your diseases?”

Niels changed his stance, widening his legs.  “Dammit!  I can’t promise, alright, I can’t guarantee anything.  I never wanted to get into this diplomacy shit, but, guess what, I’m stuck doing it.  Because I think it’s the right thing.  I believe you and the rest of your people deserve to live, even if I don’t always agree with you.  Most of my crew didn’t want you on board, Destroyer, but I let you here because you were chosen by your people to speak on their behalf.  We could have done this without you and the representatives, but I knew nobody would’ve believed a word we’d have to say about your people unless they saw you or heard from you about what your planet’s got so they can properly reckon if you’re gonna be a good ally for Xandar.  Practically everyone on Xandar believes in the sanctity of life, but they aren’t going to defend every living creatures’ willy-nilly.  Not unless they know who’s footing the bill, how much it’s gonna cost, and what they’re gonna gain from it. You and the representatives deserve this chance to speak for your planet’s survival.  Even if you’re not making this easy.”  And yet he was still bearing that arm, aiming it toward the Destroyer.

Drax had a theory for that, one which he didn’t hesitate to share.  “You believe it would be right and easier for you if you fired that piece at me.  Fire, if you believe it to be right.  I had been shot before by one of your kind’s weapons and recovered.  It would, at least, incapacitate me from fighting Manaba for now.”

“I don’t, dammit, I won’t!  Not unless you gimme proper reason to!”  And yet that arm remained raised.

“What is it you want, then?  What do you truly believe is right?”

“I’ve always wanted to bust up all crime and evil, even when I was a kid!”

“You believe I am evil, then?”

“No!”  The answer came out a surprise, to Drax and, so it seemed, even to Niels, as he dropped the second piece to the ground.  “No, I don’t know what the fuck you are.  I don’t--I don’t know what the fuck any of us are.  If anybody’s really good or evil.”  Abruptly, the captain fell to his knees, took a spot on the ground, and hid his head in his hand.  With a sweep, his dark hair was brushed back and his stolid expression faced the Destroyer once more.  His voice was quiet, again.  His statements slower.  “I believe there’s a definitive good and a definitive evil.  You, me, and most others I know are in the middle of those two.  I think folk like to think someone that don’t agree with them is on that definitive evil, because it’s a lot easier than accepting they may be a little bit wrong about something.  They prefer being in this story they heard as kids, where it was easy to tell who was bad and who was good and where doing what you wanted was always good.”  Niels paused, almost as if contemplating what to say next.  “When you were getting brought on, a lot of my crew thought you’d kill ‘em in their sleep.  They didn’t wanna get why you were doing what you did, killing a lot of folks that looked like us remorselessly.  But I got it.  We’re the invaders; we’re stealing your shit, we’re taking your land, we’re making you sick, and we’ve corrupted your kids.  You’re just cleaning house.  I reminded ‘em, if people broke into our homes and did what we were doing for centuries, we’d be doing the same.  Even if it wasn’t them that personally did it, I’d hesitate to trust anyone that’d even remind me of someone like a person that broke into my home, pulled that shit, and then expected me to deal with ‘em after.  People do evil to do good sometimes, but that doesn’t always make ‘em plain good or plain evil.  Him and people like him won’t want our help, because of what people like us did and may do, and it’s hard for us to want to help because of what him and his did and could do, but we can’t just turn our backs and leave ‘em at the mercy of a genocidal fuck.  ‘Cause that’d be no different than us killing them ourselves.  That’s what I told ‘em.”

Drax said nothing, not knowing how to respond to any of this.

“I get where you’re coming from and I want to trust you; I really do.  Because I really don’t see how this can work if neither of us can trust each other.  But that really doesn’t mean I can let you kill Manaba--”

“If he should kill me.”  There she appeared, armed and ready.  Such was only logical and inevitable.  A person with her capabilities could have easily sensed their presence by her quarters, either with her psychic capabilities or her excellently honed senses.  That or, well, they’d gotten too loud.  “Out, Niels.  I do not appreciate you involving yourself in matters that do not concern you.”

Niels interjected, loudly getting back on his feet.  “You’re both on my fucking ship, how doesn’t this concern me?  And I don’t want either of you doing this--c’mon, babe.  You don't hafta do this.  Let’s talk it out, the three of us.”

“It is too late for that.  Take your leave, now, Niels,” Manaba commanded once more, while holding her arm out and pointing it to the end of the hallway.

With a steely look in his eyes, Niels bent forward to pick up his weapons and, then, did as he was told.  The Destroyer watched, until the man made his way down the hall and disappeared.

“On your feet,” was her order.  Out of respect, the Destroyer wordlessly obeyed.

“Mutilator,” Drax addressed his enemy with the slightest of nods.  His tone was unwavering and his eye-contact met hers very directly, as a foe in combat was to be met.  “I will allow you to choose the terms and location of our combat.  Under one condition.”

Feinting a lunge, led by a spiked knuckle that stopped only a hair’s length away from the Destroyer’s neck, the Mutilator drew herself closer.  “You will tell me the term first, and I may accept it.”

Without looking away, the Destroyer removed the paper from his pocket and added it to his meagre belongings; then, he presented all of it to his most feared enemy.  “If you take my life or disfigure my person beyond any means of communication, transport these to my family and tell them from whom they are from.”

The Mutilator so very slowly canted her head, peering more closely at the Destroyer’s expression.  Seeing her cold eyes study him reminded him of the manner any skilled hunter of his planet regarded their prey.  With each dilation of her pupil, she was assessing his weaknesses and already anticipating her strengths.  There could be no secrets kept from her studious eyes.  Yet, the Destroyer did not look away and did not swallow out of nervousness.  To do such a thing, as his foe examined him, would tear away the respect he’d shown and would forever lose him this final favor.  Although the smaller, angular woman possessed such exemplary mental capabilities, it did not feel as though she used her mind to pry into his.  But, then again, such a woman did not need to resort to such tactics.  Her every sense was still sharp.  A twinge of the nose informed him that she was surreptitiously detecting any hormones that would betray his emotions, but his skin was so terribly calloused and hardened that such a scan would be pointless.  Briefly, her tongue left her mouth and licked her very dry lips.  The tongue and the lips were said to be some of the most sensitive body parts.  This very quick motion would have allowed someone very skilled, like her, to have tasted a change in the air caused by the Destroyer lifting a weapon and attempt to take a quick stab at her core.  But, the Destroyer did no such thing.  As some herbivorous creatures are capable of doing, her ears rose and fell in the blink of an eye, perhaps allowing her to tell if anyone else was coming into this corridor.  Satisfied, the corners of the woman’s thin lips lifted and parted.  She was baring her teeth, which had been meticulously sharpened at the ends.  “Your manners are superior to your Father’s.”

A taunt.  It had to be a taunt.  There was no other reason to bring it up.  Drax reminded himself repeatedly, as he kept his eyes trained upon his enemy and resisted any urge to lash out prematurely.  “Will you or will you not agree to these terms?”

Her teeth remained bared out and her expression barely flickered.  It was a brief blink that betrayed her displeasure, informing Drax that he had followed the decorum correctly.  “I will grant you this boon,” Manaba responded, brusquely breaking eye-contact and taking Drax’s possessions from him.

The things were simply things, to Drax; they belonged to people that he loved, but they could never serve as full replacements for them. Nevertheless, when the bundle was taken, Drax felt as if a large part of his soul had been spirited off with it.  The Father and Husband in him was gone.  With them removed, now the Destroyer would simply act as he would.

The angular woman removed her spiked, metallic knuckles from their place, and stepped away; with a careful crane of her neck, she beckoned him to follow.  The Destroyer did not disobey.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Although the ship was the size of four or five huts, its rooms and corridors were very strategically divided.  The individual compartments were unbearably small, especially to the taller, native people of the Destroyer’s homeworld.  Yet, this arrangement produced the most interesting illusion about the craft’s size.  With a larger number of rooms, it seemed to the Destroyer that the craft was actually much larger than it appeared.  To a man like Drax, such a deception made it appear unwise to enter unfamiliar regions.  Hitherto, the Destroyer had remained in the main corridor, his quarters, the Peacemaker’s quarters, the cockpit, and the mess area.  Manaba was directing him into parts of the craft he’d had yet to see, slowly passing through the engine room with its frightening machines and leaping over stacks of crates in the disorganized cargo area.

All of this had to be an intimidation-tactic.  The Destroyer ascertained that she had to know he’d never journeyed through these parts.  Why else would she force him to traverse this winding, indirect path?

After what felt like a good portion of a phase, Manaba stopped in a very poorly-lit region beyond the cargo area.  The most notable feature of this arrangement was a bright red, complex doorway.  By the doorway, there were some shining circles (buttons, weren’t they called?) on the wall.  Beyond the doorway, there was a smaller room with a smaller door.  And, just past the door of the room in the room, there was a small view of the expanse that Drax had, by this point, become very accustomed to.

This was the area that Niels had told the representatives they were, under no certain circumstances, not allowed to remain close to.  This was the air-lock.  Should the door contained in the room within the room malfunction, there was a chance that this red door would as well.  Should both fail, any halpless fool too close to this area would be pulled into the vacuum of space, the entire ship’s artificial atmosphere could be compromised, and everyone aboard the craft could perish.

For the briefest of instances, the Destroyer forfeited control of his facial muscles.  In that moment, his eyes grew wider, his brows arose, and his tongue shifted in his mouth.  As soon as he realized what he’d done, the Destroyer fought to regain control and return his expression to a neutral one.  His emotions could not betray him.  Not now.

But it was too late.  When his eyes met the Mutilator’s, it was very plain to see that this hadn’t eluded her line of vision.  The woman had her mouth partly open, with her tongue released and moistening her lower lip.  “My terms, Destroyer.  We will do combat on multiple fields and the victor may toss their opponent out of that air-lock.  If we are not agreed, I will not accept the terms you have set forth.”

Seemed too terrible a way to perish, yet the Destroyer was entirely at this woman’s mercy and was in no position to deny her abhorrent terms.  Yet, there was something that needed to be asked about them.  “What do you mean by multiple fields?”

The woman’s tongue returned to her mouth, and, with a barely reserved glee, her hands were opened fully and presented to the Destroyer.  “We will operate on the physical and mental field.  To acquiesce, you must take my hands.”

The Destroyer did not immediately reply, as he looked at those emptied palms, followed the faint lines of her fingers, and ended at her very sharp nail tips.  To allow this woman in his head a second time seemed unthinkable.  The first time, as far as he was aware, had irreparable effects upon his livelihood and worldview.  What would a second time do to him?

She did say multiple, which indicated…

Oh.

“You are suggesting we fight with our weapons and with our heads.”

“Concurrently.”

The Destroyer swallowed hard, but he slowly approached his foe, set his knives at his feet, and grasped her hands with his.  It would have been nice to have seen his wife and child once before this took place, but this was the pattern that his life had taken and, now, he would accept it.  His enemy bore her teeth once more, parting her lips far wider than they had been.  Her blackened gums reflected off the light through the airlock and he could have sworn her eyes blazed.  The combination of her deep blue skin, her black gums, and her yellow markings, in this lighting, had to be one of the most intimidating things that Drax the Destroyer had encountered in his lifetime, hitherto.  More fearsome than a wild animal, yet still very controlled.  Yet, he did not have it in him to look away.

Without looking away, his foe began bending her knees and lowering herself.  The Destroyer followed.  After some graceless fumbling, the pair were sitting, cross-legged and with straight backs.

“Your wife, Destroyer, had journeyed in her youth,” Manaba began, without looking away.  At this lower level, with the light from the air-lock shining down, only the highest points of her face, upon which light was reflected, could be seen in the thinnest of lines.  “Did she tell you how my people retell your tribe’s oldest story?”

This had to be another tactic.  But, by now, the Destroyer had heard much and, terrifyingly, he was compelled to listen to this other version.  “She did not, but you may speak it.”

There was a low sort of rumbling-sound that came from his foe, which slightly shook his hands as he held hers.  Was this a laugh?  “There was a wealthy man by the name of Crisoforo; he never took a wife but, one day, he made the fatal mistake of taking in a son.  His new son was not from his people, but from a strange group of wild wanderers, who stole and murdered without purpose.  Crisoforo had the misfortune of running into this a group of these brigands, and, to save his own life, his hand was forced to slaughter all but the smallest child.  This boy, Crisoforo had believed, was young and did not deserve to suffer for the sins of his parents; perhaps with the right schooling and resources, he would become something better.  Alas, Crisoforo watched as his boy grew greedy and ungrateful.  There came whispers, from the reliable servants and neighbors, that this child, at so young an age, was already planning to murder his adoptive father.  Heartbroken, Crisoforo took his son to the highest summit and had planned to abandon him there.  You know what happened thereafter, Destroyer.”

It was strange, the sensations that such a retelling had produced in him.  This was certainly not a version that he had heard before, yet, not a lurid detail of it had surprised him.  If anything, the addition sounded as if it had always belonged there and its omission almost unnecessary.  For whatever reason, his mind went to his Kammi and how she might have liked hearing this smaller part (as unpleasant as it sounded).  Morbidity possessed a magnetic aspect, that, as terrible as it appeared, would draw the smallest children close.

“Your mind often goes to your family,” the Mutilator cut in, yet, for once, there was nothing sharp in her tone.

“It does,” the Destroyer had to admit.  It was pointless to attempt even concealing such a thing, as he could feel the sharpened fingers of this woman’s psyche tear into his.

“Which version do you suppose your daughter would believe?”  Something in him splintered.  Splintered, and, then, overfilled by this other presence.  At that same time, he was filling something outside of himself.

“Both.”  As he would.

This sensation did not cease until they were emptied and filled.  The paid remained in this dark, dank place while their minds wandered purposefully **into a dirty little hut.  The family that lived in this place was small.  A mother, a father, and two little girls.  By this point, not even the mother, who had birthed these girls, could tell them apart.  Their eye color was the same, as was their every other feature.  The girls rarely smiled, but laughed often and whispered to each other in their own made-up language.  There was a little game these little girls liked to play.  It was called “Twin Magic”.  When one of their poor parents and relatives would call out for Manaba, Meda would answer, but she would have to convince her parents that she was Manaba.  Likewise for Meda.  Whoever went the longest, before they were caught, was the winner.**

**Truth be told, it had become hard to tell who was Manaba and who was Meda even among them.  Only when they played their game and one of them answered to the name Manaba, the other knew her sister was truly Meda and she was Manaba.  When she answered to Manaba, she knew the reverse was true.  The girls were never apart from one another** ploy.  This had to be a ploy for sympathy, to distract him.  The Destroyer knew well that he was in space, by the air-lock, holding hands with his enemy; yet, he was also in his wife’s parlor.  They were younger.  His wife was now to be called Hovat, and, just a few phases ago, she’d nearly succeeded in murdering her own mother.  (Her mother moved out at the start of this new phase.)  No.  Not yet wife.  They were not yet wedded.  She was carving into his skin.  And saying something.

What was she saying?

Oh.

“Drax, I’d asked you to listen,” his wife gently chided, as she made a very clean incision down his cheek.  Yes.  It stung.  But, by this point, he’d survived a war.  At one point, his insides had been blown out of his systems.  At some other, his head had been cracked open.  This?  A love-tap.  Mind, it still hurt, but the Destroyer was too fixated on studying his wife’s face.

The curves of her cheeks.  The bright silver in her eyes.  Her lips.  The little mark near her nose, often hidden in shadow.

“I am-I am sorry,” Drax stammered, as he watched his younger wife--no, his childhood sweetheart--rush to her table and look for her brush and chemical mixture.  Right.  There were no apprentices.  She’d just assumed this title **s were for the foolhardy and vainglorious.  Such a thing was far out of the girls’ little world, which consisted only of their little hut, their family, and the stories they’d tell.  Their parents, who were without titles, tried to instill some respect for these titles in their daughters but such a task was pointless.**

**For the girls knew that these titles were mere names, with no inherent power in them.  Not like the power over the mind, which they shared between each other.  The one who was called Meda, among them, was able to look into the other plane and see beyond their pale of existence.  The futures, the place where the dead journeyed to, worlds very different but similar to their own.  The one called Manaba excelled in looking so thoroughly at what was in front of her eyes, being able to dig into the minds of those that stood before her.  When it served one twin well, they would become Meda and look outside of what they could see.  Automatically, the other became Manaba.  And they would switch, when it suited them well enough.**

**Neither of these marvelous talents were of use to their dear parents, when the Mutilator sought their home and** “Did you hear a single thing I’d said,” Hovat asked, so sweetly, as she rushed to cover his new wound in that mixture before it healed.  They were so close.  So terribly close.  The Destroyer rustled, only to find bindings on his arms that held him where he stood.  Right.  He was constricted and standing; he couldn’t touch her, only feel her breath on his skin.  Her eyes darted back up to his, staring most curiously.  “Did I cut too deeply?”

“Not at all,” the Destroyer insisted, as his sweetheart brought herself closer to the cut.  So close.  So close.  But she was still just beyond his reach.  What was it she was doing now?  Her eyes flitted, between her handiwork and his eyes.  “I’ve missed you.”

And his sweetheart tilted her head back and laughed, her glorious laugh.  How he’d longed to hear it.  The Destroyer shut his eyes, simply to savor the sound as it rang in his ears.  Soon enough, her peal waned into softer, fascinated breaths.  Her breathing quieted down with her footfalls, as she walked a small distance away from him.

This was always the nature of their relationship, wasn’t it?  She’d leave.  He’d wait, but his patience was never squandered.  Because she would always return.  It was like that, when he was living in her basement, and it was like that just now.  As she was now, with louder footfalls and the screeching of...right, of a wooden box (she needed the wooden box to reach the top of his head).  Compared to some others in their age-group, her height was a little above average.  Yet, she was still unable to reach the top of his head, while he stood.  Once more, he could hear her breathing and feel the heat from her own skin as she stood atop that box and leaned close **ly, the Mutilator slashed into the arm of one, squirming twin.  The other was screaming, struggling as she was held back by the Mutilator’s burlier cohorts; she didn’t cry, as she’d seen her parents vivisected in front of her mere moments ago and was beyond such pitiable grief.  Neither of the twins could have been any older than Kamaria was.**

**This Mutilator was tall and terribly lithe.  His skin was mottled, ruddy in some sections and blue-green-grey-brown in others.  His features were, for lack of a better word, bulbous.  Not to say he was rotund.  Simply his entirety was covered in roundish, rough, elevated patches.  His outfit was simple and unadorned, with two furs (one to cover his lower regions and a second like a veil over his head).**

**“If I should take out this one’s eyes,” the Mutilator cooed, placing fingernails around his captive’s lids, “Will the other one go blind?  Or, if I should remove her littlest finger, will the other’s shrivel up?”  The captive twin did not struggle, did not move, as her captor’s sharp nails pressed a little deeper into her socket.  “If I kill this one, like I did her parents, would the other perish?”**

**The cohorts found these little musings terribly funny, and snickered among themselves as they held back their twin.**

**Who had which twin?  Which was Manaba and which was Meda?**

**This wasn’t something that concerned the Mutilator or his cohorts, but, perhaps, it should have.  For the one called Manaba began to search her enemies’ spirits and memories, for something to be used against her and her sister’s enemies** And, just like that, he felt very much like a child again.

Well, like a tall child, but a child.  All of that time spent warring?  All of those scars and wounds he’d healed from?  Forgotten in this instance.  How easy it felt, to slip back into the roles they’d played in childhood and return to more innocent times.  As if to confirm his feeling, there came the sensation of fingertips brushing against his brows.  Those tips moved in an almost intoxicating, horizontal motion.  Back and forth, left to right.

“We had done this incorrectly,” Hovat whispered, so reverently.  “Traditionally, the face is the first part to be carved.  As a rite of passage, before one embarks on their adolescent journey, parents take their child to this parlor and map out their first ritualistic scars.”  So smoothly, those elegant fingertips slipped from his left brow, around his eye, and down his cheek.  A crescent moon, much like his father had.  “I think of it as the parents’ last push to exert what control they can over their child.”

He’d forgotten how cynical his wife could be, yet this did nothing to deter the affection he felt for her.  “What if it’s a farewell?  One final lesson, where they wouldn’t forget it.”  Almost immediately, he felt arms wrap around his upper shoulders and the soft weight of her head against his  **forehead of their penultimate, living foe made a terrible sound, as Manaba and Meda watched him bang his head against their toy chest and crack it wide open.  This thing that was once a man had too much of a conscience in him, as the others did, and he could not bear to endure visions of every killing he’d enacted through the perspective of his victims.**

**But Manaba had searched deep inside of their captors that they’d kept alive, and found no such conscience in the Mutilator.  Even as his friends destroyed themselves in front of him, he simply laughed.  The twins needed to find something else to destroy him with.**

**Their eyes flashed, as they held hands and worked in conjunction.  The pair approached their foe slowly, speaking in their twin-language, and cornered their parent’s murderer.  The Mutilator was on his back, barely crawling until he’d hit a wall; he still seemed to find this terribly funny.**

**“Do you know what your parents had done to earn this?”**

**The girls didn’t care to ask.  Manaba glared, as she pried into her enemy’s mind and brought forth the identities of every person he’d ever mutilated.  Meda had been allowed into her sister’s mind, and, while cross-referencing her sister’s discoveries, sought his victims in the next astral plane.**

**“Your mother once held my title; she was called Monashir the Mutilator.  She and Dido the Destroyer were engaged in fierce combat, but they grew bored after the first few phases of it.  To liven things up, one of the two lit their battlefield on fire.  The fire spread and roasted a village alive.  I was the sole survivor; but I made myself stronger.  It had taken me terribly long to find the last Mutilator, torture him into telling me where to find Monashir, and take his title from him.  But it was worth it.”**

**Meda had found them.  All of them.  Every last soul this Mutilator had slain.  Squeezing her sister’s hand, Meda transferred their spirits over to Manaba.  Her twin opened up another hand and held it before her.**

**“This, little girls, will make you strong as it had made me strong.  You should be thanking me,” the Mutilator claimed, still laughing so horribly.  “I will be surrendering my title over to you, with my death!  You will become somebody, instead of living and dying in squalor as you have if I did not come here!”**

**The spirits were less than merciful.  Instead of trying to overwhelm such a terrible person with guilt, they took a hold of his body.  Not at once, but piece-by-piece.  First, his tendons were stretched until they snapped.  Then, his bones were smashed one-by-one.  His other organs expanded until they exploded, not in a manner unlike the tendons.**

**Even as his heart burst through his chest and his eyes popped like berries being squeezed, the Mutilator still laughed.  “I will not be defeated!  Even in death, I will enact my revenge!** I often wondered how things would have been if I’d stayed,” Hovat sighed, so sweetly.  “I know, now, we were far too young to marry and I didn’t love you as I do now; but, I still regret leaving you alone.”

All of the hardness of spirit, all of the posturing he’d been attempting to assume became forgotten.  Now, there was only her.  And, in place of the hatred he felt, came the desire to simply love this woman and to earn her love in return.  His eyes opened, as he knew he had to say this while looking directly in her eyes.  “You have nothing to regret.  In your presence, I am unable to recall any of that loneliness.”

This simply prompted her to wrap her arms around him tighter.  “Why are you so kind to me?”  Her breath felt terribly warm and her lips appeared so enticing.  This was the mouth that had given him life, and, with each exhalation and baleful word shared, stirred his lifeblood in a way he’d never thought possible.  Whatever this woman would ask, even if it were for him to remove his own arm (not that he believed her cruel enough to demand such a thing from him), it would be hers.

His answer to her question was simple.  It was what it had always been and, at the time, how things always felt they ought to be.  “Because you have been kind to me, when nobody else has.  There is nobody else for me to be kind to.”

**The girls said nothing, not even in their twin-language, as they lay on the floor of their bedroom and held hands.  The smell of the corpses was becoming overwhelming, but they did not dare look away from each other or stand upon their feet.  If the gods of this region were kind enough, they thought, they would let them alone and allow the newest Mutilators to simply lie on the floor.  For eternity.**

**Instead, the little door of their hut opened up.  Unfamiliar footfalls echoed across the walls of what they’d once considered their home.**

**Was it death, come to return them to the company of their dear parents?  Or, perhaps, more terrible friends of their antecedent?**

**One of the twins shuddered.  The other shushed her sister, and squeezed her sibling’s hand a little tighter.  Come what may, they would face it together.**

**The intruder let out nothing, but elegant gasps, as she staggered to the doorway of their bedroom.  One twin turned away, while, in perfect synchronization with her sister, the other turned towards the entranceway.  In the threshold stood a rather short woman.  Her size belied her spirit, for her immense presence was enough to fill the entire hut and then some.  Without being asked to do so, the other twin turned back to look on this woman fully.**

**For the first in many phases, as the girls looked on this old woman who was approaching them, they felt safe.  Neither twin had met this woman in person, yet, as was common with people bearing mental gifts like theirs, there was something familiar about her.  It had felt as though they had known this stranger all their life and, perhaps, for even longer.  This woman bore the air of an old, dear relative.  They did not shy away, when this woman kneeled before them and opened her arms; instead, they arose, in perfect unison, and accepted this woman’s embrace.**

**“Oh, girls,” the woman...no, the Peacemaker, as she was called, sobbed.  “I am so sorry that I arrived too late.”  There was something that had always disgusted the girls about people that were crying, that were acting over-apologetically.  Yet, nothing about this repulsed Manaba and Meda from the Peacemaker.  Instead, they joined in.  And nothing about it felt terrible.**

Terribly abruptly, the corners of Hovat’s eyes teared up.  So gently, her arms released him from her embrace.  One of her hands moved, to rest on the back of his head.  The other was placed at his cheek, ghosting the freshly-made scar with her fingertips.  “I’ve travelled very far.  For one thing.  But I don’t think I can ask for it from you.”

The Destroyer couldn’t take this, this standing idle and watching as she put herself through some mental turmoil; with an inelegant crane of his neck, Drax shifted and leaned forward.  Their lips brushed for a mere moment, before Hovat took him in and passionately returned his kiss.

He’d longed for this for far too long.  For these lips, that had sustained him.  For those eyes, that compelled and beguiled him.  For her spirit, that he was certain matched with his like no other’s ever could.  If he were able, he would have remained like that.  For eternity.

But, well, then he couldn’t say this thing that absolutely had to be said.  Pulling away from her, the Destroyer slowly demanded, “Ask it.  And it will be done.”  Greedily, Hovat brought his head close to hers and stole another kiss.  And another.

“It was so easy, just thinking of getting it done,” the Hacker claimed, reluctantly stopping herself from taking one more.  Not that Drax would have complained, if she’d tried.  “I want to join our spirits in matrimony, but, then, I think of my father and mother; I don’t want to lose you like I lost my father.”

“Woe to the fools, who should separate us,” Drax proclaimed, so boldly.  “Do what is customary.  Choose your suitors, the most terrifying among the titled and untitled, and I will do combat with them.  I would rend their flesh with my teeth, I would remove their limbs, I would destroy them in such a way that nobody would dare even think of--”  Hovat interrupted this most brash boasting, by bringing her lips to his once more.

**The Destroyer had been so terribly absorbed by thoughts of his wife and by her recollections that he did not immediately react, when the Mutilator took her first strike.  While still holding his hand, the Mutilator took her swing.  Those spiked knuckles of hers pierced even his strong hide, penetrating his cheek and cracking into his jaw.**

But the Mutilator had also been careless.  While taking her strike, it appeared that she’d forgotten the Destroyer had laid his blades by his feet.  Although as a staggered reflex, the Destroyer kicked his frontmost leg out of the crossed position and struck his knife.  This blade was very swiftly propelled, and landed so neatly in the shin of his foe.

The woman screamed.

**The woman screamed, as the Peacemaker placed her withered hand upon her brow; she screamed, yet she still minded her breathing.**

**“Push,” Pax instructed, so gently, as she rubbed the temples of a pregnant woman and held her hand.  “You are doing wonderfully.”  The woman was lying down, on the dirt floor of a threadbare little hut.  Her impoverished village had been embroiled in a war, and, so, most of the medics were away.  The few who remained had refused to lend their aid.**

**The twins were closeby, wetting cloths and following whatever the Peacemaker instructed them to.  One was very absorbed in her tasks, checking that the water’s temperature did not weaken past tepid.  The other could not look away from the woman screaming in agony.**

**What was it that she was pushing within her, this twin couldn’t help but wonder.  Was it her lifeblood, which she was squeezing out to give to her child?  Her sister interrupted this odd little string of thinking, gently chiding her for thinking away from the task at hand.  A third, elderly voice very sweetly chimed in, insisting that, in spite of this, they were performing well enough.  In all of the time they’d spent with the Peacemaker, this was the first that they’d helped with a delivery.  The Peacemaker did not typically consort with something like this, but there was a feature about this birth that differentiated it from any that had taken place in their little world.**

**Typically, the Peacemaker and the twins spent a phase or two in each village; then, they would move on.  This time, their stay had been a few phases longer than was usual.  The father squatted closeby, grasping the other hand of this woman and glancing anxiously out of the casement.  The twins had been told, repeatedly, that staring a little too long at this man was rude, but it was the first time that they’d seen someone like him up close and such a feat proved impossible to even the more focused of the twins.**

**His skin wasn’t like theirs, a muted shade that he mistook for grey (when it was actually considered very blue among them).  His tone was much lighter, redder.  He possessed sun-colored hair on his head, dressed oddly, tried to speak their language with a terrible accent, and often defaulted to a tongue they couldn’t understand (but they didn’t need to, since they simply needed to peer into his mind to see what he’d intended).  This was a Xandarian.**

**And, with the guidance of the Peacemaker, the birth of the first child of their kind and of the Xandarians was successful.**

The Destroyer winced, as he shakily struggled to stand and turn his head to remove the woman’s bloodied knuckles from his jaw.  Her incredibly sharp punch had managed to shatter his mandible with one blow.  It would take many hours for the bone in his maw to regenerate and, hopefully, reset properly.  The meat and skin would take a little longer.  Gore was coursing from the corner of his unopened lips, flowing in red rivulets indistinguishable from his keloid scarring.

With a small punt, the Destroyer directed his second blade up and, with a snarl and a great amount of discipline, caught his weapon with his teeth.  While still recovering from the sudden blow to her legs, the Mutilator’s eyes glanced up in time.  Manaba pivoted her shoulders and her head to the left, dodging the first of Drax’s first stabs; then, to right (with the same results).  While the Destroyer’s cranium was an eyelash’s width from her nose, her head quickly came down and crashed into her enemy’s.  The moments that the Destroyer had spent recomposing himself allowed Manaba the opportunity to return to her feet.

“What is it that disgusts you more, Drax,” Manaba slurred, nose running as red as his own blood.  “Is it the guilt you have, for dampening your own conscience?  Or is it the pleasure and power you feel, when you overwhelm someone weaker than yourself?”

The Destroyer said nothing, since he was no longer able to, but the intensity in his eyes replied well enough.  The Mutilator stepped forward with one foot, and back with the other; leaning forward, she began to push her weight into his form.  Not yet with enough force to push him over, as this was not yet her intention.  Taking her unsaid invitation, Drax mirrored her motions and, too, began to push a little forward.

They were testing each other, preparing to throw their full strength in any moment.

“Yeah.  Me too,” the Mutilator darkly mused, stepping to her side.  The Destroyer matched her motion.  And the pair followed each other like this, slowly picking up speed and never looking away from each other.

**The twin knew now that she had made a mistake, and, in doing so, learned something she did not yet wish to learn.**

**“When a man and a woman love each other very much,” the Peacemaker began thinking, sitting calmly upon the dirt floor and by the hut’s entrance.  “Or, for some species, if a woman and a woman, a man and a man, and...well, some cultures possess more than two genders--”**

**“I know where babies come from,” the sister mentally insisted, without blinking and sitting very close to the Peacemaker.  “There was something else that I needed to ask about, Peacemaker.”  The three of them had no need to communicate with words and, for the past thousands of phases they had been travelling with the Peacemaker, this was the only way they had talked amongst each other.  The sisters made no effort to communicate with any other, non-telepathic or telepathic.  The twin had preferred communicating in this fashion, since she often had difficulty transferring what it was that she truly wanted to say into words.  “I know that you are very capable of influencing emotions.  Why didn’t you remove the woman’s labor pains?”**

**The Peacemaker’s smile didn’t disappear or flicker.  Reaching over, one of the oldest among their species placed her wrinkled hands upon the twin’s.  Were it anyone other than her twin or the Peacemaker that laid a hand on her, that offending hand would be met with very sharp teeth.  Neither twin possessed vivid memories of their memories.  At best, their parents were mental approximations with features that changed daily.   As far as this twin was concerned, the only family she had was her other twin and the Peacemaker.  Nobody else mattered.  “I brought you girls to this place for a reason, and it was partly to see that.”**

**“That does not answer my question.”**

**The Peacemaker simply laughed, rubbing her hand against the twin’s.  Any unease she’d had evaporated with that touch.  “I would have robbed** (the Peacemaker had said the woman’s name but, by now, Manaba no longer recalled this)  **of the experience, and she needed it.”**

**The twin glanced over and pulled her hand away.  “Peacemaker, nobody should need to feel pain.”**

**“Pain is very necessary,” the Peacemaker responded.  “It isn’t pleasant, but it keeps us tethered to this plane.”  When Pax spoke like this, the girl never knew what she meant.  Meda was able to see these parts outside of what she saw in front of her, and she was better able to understand Pax when she spoke like this.  Manaba only understood what she could see.  Both personalities were less separate identities, to the girls, and more statuses to assume.  Without thinking, one would simply flow from one into the other.  They were no longer able to tell which they were, until they tried and failed to use an ability that only the other possessed.  So, this twin assumed that she was currently Manaba.  “Child, Manaba, what do you think your destiny is?”**

**“To live as we have and remain with you and my sister forever,” was Manaba’s earnest response.  This was what she felt in her bone marrow, what rang truest in her spirit.**

**The Peacemaker looked on for a moment, saying nothing but thinking many things in a language even older than the one that the older woman had taught Manaba and Meda; after the moment passed, she stood and turned to face out of the door.  “Not even this will last,” she spoke aloud.  The timbre in the Peacemaker’s voice was gentle, as it always was, yet it did nothing to weaken the blow dealt to this twin.  “You and your sister still have many things to learn, but, when you are both teenagers and have learned all that I have to teach you, you will return to your tribe of origin and finally act as Mutilator.  You will need to speak on your own behalf, without your sister, and act of your own accord.  That is your destiny, as I’ve seen it, and it must come to pass.”**

**Manaba’s eyes widened.  But the little girl stopped herself, before she could object.**

**The Peacemaker usually looked directly at her eyes, when she directed her thoughts to her and her sister.  It was a sign of respect, and, Manaba knew, for the Peacemaker to forget such manners indicated that there was something else occupying her attention.  Instinctively, the young Mutilator turned, stood, and drew her blade.  The Peacemaker held up her hand, ceasing the Mutilator from drawing the first blood.**

**Assembled before them, nigh indiscernible from night shadows, were a dozen armed men and women.  This night was a highly unusual one, in that all moons around this area were entering the new moon phase.  Thus, none of the moons offered sufficient lighting, obscuring the mob’s faces sufficiently.  Yet, their feelings could not remain hidden.  Hate possessed a unique perfume that could not be hidden by midnight’s musk.**

**“My loves,” the Peacemaker began, slowly extending both arms out and stepping out of the doorframe.  “I know what you are here for and what it is that you wish to complete, but I cannot allow it; I ask, instead, that you think of your own families.  Think of your spouses, with whom you worked hard to build a home.  Think of your lovers, who would sacrifice much on your behalf and for whom you would not hesitate to do the same.  Think of the children in your lives--your own sons and daughters, your nieces and nephews, your grandkids, your neighbors who have brought much sweetness and innocence into your lives.  The family that occupies this dwelling place is no different than you and I.  They crave food, drink, and love; time to time, they also feel seething anger, overwhelming fear, and intoxicating happiness.  Think of your own families, and the joy they bring to you, before you deprive them of this same life and joy.”  As the Peacemaker spoke on, she dared to step more and more forward.  The scent of hatred in the air did not dissipate, not even when the Peacemaker stood among them and pleaded her case.  Yet, none of them stirred from their positions.**

**Manaba remained obedient to the Peacemaker’s gesture, and remained by the doorway.  Her sister was with the new mother and father, in a pit that they’d dug this morning.  The pit was only covered in a thin rug, that most definitely gave away the father’s heritage in its strange colors and artificially manufactured material.  Only the Mutilator’s sword and the Peacemaker’s words served as a barrier between this angered crowd’s weaponry and their swords.  Even as she stood away from her sister, Manaba could taste her sister’s claustrophobia.  The scent of dirt, sweat, and tears clung to her nostrils and stung her eyes.**

**If this crowd dare struck and ignored the Peacemaker’s heeding, Manaba would not hesitate to strike.  It would have been dishonest to insist she wouldn’t have enjoyed exchanging blows with foes like these.**

The Destroyer struggled to remain standing, as his enemy pushed her weight into him.

He had to keep it together.

Keep it together.

Keep his attentions from flying further apart.

Keep it together.

He was here.

He was here.

He was here.

He was--

They were in the center of their village, in the middle of the night.  Drax the Destroyer was beheading one of the other suitors, among the many his wife had chosen.  Who was this man?  What did he care?  Perhaps, at some point in the war, they had stood beside each other and fought for the same cause.  Perhaps the man worked in the market, and they’d exchanged words before he had bartered some food from him.  As of this moment, none of this mattered.  Each of these suitors had to be killed in brutal fashions, before the expectant, hungry eyes of their fellow tribespeople.

**While his eyes appeared glazed over, Manaba shot her head forward.  Her sharp teeth greeted his jugular, welcoming her aggression with a burst of red blood.**

He was with his new bride, both lying before the little home’s hearth; he wasn’t sleeping and, again, his attentions were divided.  His eyes were fixed upon his new wife, as if she would disappear the instance he dared look away.  His ears were trained on their surroundings, for any errant onomatopoeias from any that would give away any intruders’ unwanted presence.  One of his hands held his wife’s, and his other was on the handle of his knife.

**It had been surprisingly easy to turn the Destroyer.  With a few steps to the left and a hearty push, his back was up against the red door.**

He was in Mount Kylos, with his wife, consummating his lifelong passions for her.  They had completed combat for the entirety several phases, hunted local game for sustenance, and acted as lovers for the first time in the caves.  It had been two phases, and he had yet to release himself inside of her.  She was imploring him to concentrate, to remain with her.  Tiredness ached his joints, yet his body moved automatically with hers.  Was it so terrible that he’d found the combat far simpler than this?

**Manaba took a moment to savor this; drawing her face away from his neck, the Mutilator took one last glance at her opponent’s face.  How similar he was to his foolish father.**

The nuptials and their intricacies lasted longer, until she had become pregnant.  Her status was made know when she had urinated upon barley and wheat seeds.  At last, the barley had sprouted.  A girl.  The Goddess was providing them a beautiful girl

Shortly after their discovery, they were found by a messanger and summoned to do combat in the last war that their tribe took part in, robbing him of any happiness he would have felt for his wife’s status.

**At last, her sister’s eyes would be avenged.**

She lay, injured, in some healer’s tent; other than a broken arm, she was in a good condition.  At least, that was what she had insisted to her husband, repeatedly.  Like the rest of their species, her womb was graced with a high resiliency.  They were terribly fortunate that everyone had loved Hovat, commending her hidden pregnancy and willingness to fight in such a condition.  The Destroyer simply lay at her side, quietly scolding her for her foolishness.  But she hadn’t left him alone; she was happy for it.

**Manaba released a hearty laugh, as she raised her hands above her head.**

The Destroyer was squeezing his wife’s hand, as she lay on the floor of her parlor.  She was restraining herself, stopping any screams from leaving her mouth.  The healers compelled her to push.  Just a little longer, they said.  A little longer.  The Destroyer had told himself, if he let go, she could slip away like his mother.  Why did he have to impregnate her?  Why did he put her through this?

**Just as those spiked knuckles were being thrown in the direction of the door’s glass, the Mutilator stopped herself from landing that final blow.**

The Destroyer was sobbing, terribly relieved that his wife had survived.  She lay close to him, softly cooing to the warm bundle in her arms and beckoning him to his child.

“I think I’m supposed to be the one crying,” his wife so sleepily chided, tilting her load closer so that he was allowed a better view of his daughter’s sweet little face.

Oh, was she beautiful.  The Destroyer had heard of such a thing, and he’d never believed it could happen to someone as horrible and cold as him, but he’d fallen for this tiny one after seeing her just once.

**Manaba lowered her arms, intoxicated by her opponent’s overwhelming happiness.  Her senses were dulled terribly and her mind went somewhere that it shouldn’t have.**

**To her own inseminated womb.**

**Shuddering, she began to wipe his blood from her lips.**

Staggering and blinking, the Destroyer placed a hand on his vein.  

No.  

Turning his head to the side, the man spat his blade out of his mouth and, then, turned back to study his opponent; he may have been many things, but he wasn’t someone who would intentionally harm a pregnant woman.

**The Mutilator said nothing, no longer smelling hate coursing through his systems.  Any ire she felt for him had dissipated as well, with every question he had for her running in his head.**

**“I don’t know who the father is,” Manaba confessed, as he placed his other hand on her cheek and very closely searched her features for some fatal sign.  “I’m fine.  You idiot, you’re bleeding out; you should be worrying about yourself and leaving your family behind.  That’s the shape of our world.  To survive, you must be cruel.  You can’t be merciful like this.  I could take advantage of your sentimentality and just kill you now.  You know this as well as I, I know you know.”**

He did.  Yet, now, a vital truth had become terribly clear to him.

The only reason he lived was because others were merciful, often while lacking any reason to be.  So it was, for her sake and that of her unborn child, that this fight would cease.

Yet, the Destroyer couldn’t help but wonder how she could do such a thing.  How could she, so coldly, choose to fight him, knowing well that she was putting her own kid at risk?

**“I don’t know why,” Manaba slowly responded, pulling herself away from her enemy.  “I don’t know why I did any of this anymore.”  And, after stepping several paces back, both of her hands were raised above her head.**

With that, the Destroyer felt his head emptied and, then, overfilled with pain and a great weight.  Only now did the density of his breathing and the outflow of his neck strike him.  How long had his jugular been bleeding?  He didn’t know.  His mouth opened, as if there was something that would come forth.  There were many things that he’d wished to tell her.

But nothing came out.

Instead, the immense Destroyer’s eyes turned skywards.  His knees gave way.  His mind remained moving, even as he laid still on the ground.  It was cold.  He knew this metallic ground had to be cold.  Yet, his body felt only warmth.  The last thing he saw, before his lids grew too heavy, was his opponent wrapping her arms around his broad chest and noiselessly growling as she strained to lift him over her shoulders.


	15. Untitled #12 (Free Jazz)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://youtube.com/watch?v=Kky13zyWSUk)

The events that transpired in the next minutes proceeded in an assumedly dreamlike fashion (assumedly, because it had been a very long time since Drax had slept and dreamt of anything and only now possessed the vaguest recollection of what it was like to dream while sleeping), whilst the Destroyer’s mind and body sought some reserve energy in him to repair the incredible damage he had sustained and his foe frantically screamed (or he perceived she was screaming, since her mouth was gaped and motioning as if she was saying something loudly, but he heard nothing and perhaps was seeing nothing, as his eyes felt as warm as they did when they were closed, and maybe he was only seeing through his enemy’s point of view or imagining all of this), but his mind and body struggled since his psyche had been shattered and spread throughout his memories, various thoughts, and somewhere he did not recognize yet, at the same time, felt very familiar and it was in this last place that he could feel the presence of his beloved father, Dagon, and, perhaps, his mother, so all he needed to do was to allow himself to move a little further, but he couldn’t since Manaba (or was she now Meda?) was still holding on to him on both this physical plane and, partly, in the metaphysical, and perhaps on the other planes (however many there were), well, not just her held him, now, as other crew members heard her, gasped at the blood running down his neck and mouth and down her kneecaps and nostrils, and several attempted to carry both her and him, but just beyond he could feel his father and he’d wanted so badly to see him again and beg him to provide him counsel as he had in life, yet several men were taking him out of this area and Manaba did not look away from him and would not let his mind go, even as the pain in his neck and his mouth burned and made his eyes water, but it did not make him cry since he’d only cried once in his life and, even then, he’d felt ridiculous having done so and he refused to feel weak and ridiculous, all while these men lifted him onto his cot-bed, bandaged him, and tried to sew up his wounds, while he ran after his father and implored the Mutilator to let him go find his father, to at least give him a proper goodbye since he was unconscious during his funeral ceremony and he’d never thanked him for the gift of R’sani bones that he’d so generously given on the last day of his life, before he faced the father of Adahy and died so horribly, even though he’d long lost those R’sani bones and, now, only carried a memory of them, much like all things in his life that had been abruptly taken from him, with the exception of those things that, eventually, time also stole memories of, so that he had nothing left, like his mother, who he missed but wondered how it was possible to miss someone he’d never known or had anything, other than his life (and he wondered if if would have been possible for him to have another, but that was beside the point), to remember her by, as he also wondered why Manaba did not let him go or why she did not simply discard him like most others had, with the exception of his wife and his daughter, who were the only living souls that loved him and  and who he knew were the few he could ever be capable of loving because he was a cold bastard who barely understood mercy and compassion, as he blinked and blinked and succumbed to the consuming blackness of

dreamless sleep.


	16. Alone Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5hdArkLf-8Q)

The Destroyer awoke, bandaged and sore in many places.  Mostly sore in his head, his jaw, and his neck.  Sitting close by his cheap little cot was a sleeping Manaba, who, even in unconsciousness, sat with her back straight.  Her legs were well-bandaged, but that was not what had warranted attention.  On her face, her yellow war-paint had been removed.  With the absence of the yellow whorls, her features looked very different.  Less angled.  Almost approachable.  Almost.

The Destroyer attempted to move, to shift his weight into his forearms and sit up, but such a task felt too arduous to even will.  Instead a simple turn of the neck,  a tilt of the head, and a careful squint would have to suffice for his simple analysis.

The woman did not show any sign of puffiness, as a pregnant woman would.  Perhaps it was why her moods were so erratic--but he had barely known her before they undertook this journey and did not know what level of moodiness was common for her.  Even in her recollections, or what he’d seen of them, she seemed as erratic as she was now.  The Destroyer sought memories of his own wife’s clandestine pregnancy and how she’d changed after she had conceived.

Hovat was pleasant and happy, perhaps more than he’d ever seen her, as they’d waited for Kamaria.  There were times when her stomach would act most inappropriately, demanding to be satisfied by the oddest combination of foods and repaying its met demands with poorly-timed illnesses.  Then again, her body was at the proper age to support another life.

Manaba was considerably older than his wife had been.  Was there a danger to conceive at so great an age?  Then again, physically, the woman was in excellent shape for her age.

It was then that a most terrifying thought had commanded the entirety of his attention-span.  This woman was a rather young teenager when she’d faced his father, who had just completed his adolescent journey.  His father and this woman were practically peers.  If Father were alive, he would have been around her age.

It was the oddest kind of sensation.  In spite of his everything throbbing terribly, his mind had felt clearer than it had in too long.  Not a false sort of clarity, like the one produced by alcohol.  The sort of state of mind wherein mathematical problems were calculated as simply as one recalled the lyrics of a song they’d known since childhood.  Within time spent blinking both eyes, the Destroyer fairly accurately ascertained their age-difference.  With a sniff of his nostril, he recalled how long he’d lived while lacking a father.  With a second blink, the Destroyer came to a conclusion that, in other circumstances, would have shaken him to his very core.

His father was a little younger than he had been, when he’d passed.  This Destroyer had outlived his own father.  His father had accomplished much in his time on the mortal coil; he’d married a little younger, built a school that he took his own son out of, and nursed a terrible grudge he never grew out of.

Yet the Destroyer still looked back and only thought of his Father with a lot of love.  Drago was no longer the perfect paragon he’d held in great esteem, but there, in this flawed being, still remained the great man he’d aspired to become like.

And how had Drago’s son turned out?  Attor made up a name for himself (to become the Destroyer as soon as possible), fell in love a little too young, avenged, fought in two wars, learned to speak and read in the language of his enemies, and journeyed past their horizons.  And, now, his life was eternally indebted to both of his Father’s enemies.

What was it, to owe one’s life to another?

It was the belief of his people that each end must be paid with a consequence.  Murder must always be met with greater murder and, conversely, generosity with greater kindness.  To be saved, and, thereby, being freely given his life, demanded that the Destroyer give something greater than his own life.

But what would suffice?

**The thought of it makes you sick** , a voice in his head remarked.  **To be decent to your Father and Mother’s enemies.**

Where was he looking?  He’d been so fixated on his thoughts that he had not noticed the Mutilator’s own eyes open and, now, found himself staring back at a pair of her very dark eyes.

**You cannot hide this revulsion from me,** the woman intoned without moving her lips.  And the Destroyer knew it to be very true; and, for once, he felt deeply ashamed of this all too familiar hatred.

**You and I are too much alike** , Manaba mentally sighed without, for once, a hint of malice.   **We both feel as though we were chosen by our gods, to take up our parent’s titles and missions.  In spite of tasting the errs of our parents’ lifestyles, we keep to them because we know no other way to live.  And what has it gotten us?  Spirits and hearts that love too few and fear too much.**

The Destroyer struggled, to part his lips and respond.

**Do not tire yourself needlessly** , Manaba scolded her junior.  But the Destroyer would not heed this command.  Trembling, his jaw slowly opened and released a single pronoun.  “I-”

**Stop it.**

“I know--”

**Stop.**

“--I know...of what I must do,” the Destroyer claimed too slowly.  “But--” **you don’t know how to do it correctly.**

The man blinked, releasing with it a sigh of humbler acquiescence.  The Mutilator blinked, and let out a groan of her own.   **Meda would know, but she remains in my sister’s body on our home-planet.  Manaba only knows, now, of what not to do.  Ever since your Father maimed my sister, I’ve remained her.  It has been handy to be her in combat, but not in any other circumstance.  It was why I’d asked the Peacemaker to insure I’d only do what was right.  For this mission and for the sake of my unborn child.  But even she, with her vast power, strained to keep my spirit obedient.  And, so, I can only recommend not doing that to yourself.** Was there...a tone of penitence in this admiss-- **you know well that there is, Destroyer.  You know well that there is.**

Drax said nothing, simply trying to process all that was revealed to him.  It seemed a terrible thing, to surrender one’s will to another.   **But it is no different than what everyone else does.  We all sign over our wills to ones that we trust.  Me to the Peacemaker and my twin, and you to your family.**  But, surely, they’d never seized control of his mind,  **but you’ve allowed them to influence your decisions and shape who you are.** **It is no different than my relationship with the Peacemaker.  Perhaps less understandable to you, but there’s nothing I can do about that.** The man was about to think of some retort or counterargument, but, at the time, he could not think of any.

**Rest, Destroyer.  We are nearing Xandar, whereupon you will be able to speak with your beloved wife** , there was a curious pause, then,  **and little daughter.**  Somewhere, hidden in this claim, was there a hidden apology?  This time, the Mutilator forced her own eyes shut and did not exercise the courtesy to answer his rhetorical observation.

He did not need such an order repeated.  His blue-red eyes slowly shut, as he asked a great many things to himself.  Many of the questions needed to be shared, but now was not the time.  Many were also unnecessary and, by the time he’d awake, would be forgotten.  Of the questions ringing in his head, there were two that sounded loudest and haunted him until he’d entered dreamless sleep.

What was it about his beloved Kamaria that had warranted the attentions of the Peacemaker and Manaba?

And was it foolish of him, to feel safe, now, while immobilized and abed with only his former(?) enemy for company?

All of his life, the Destroyer had had very few friends.  Childhood friends, whose names and faces he’d long forgotten.  His family, of his Father, his wife, and his daughter.  He liked to think that his Mother had been fond of him, but he could not be certain of this.  Had the Mutilator reached this small number?  He was uncertain.  At the least, she seemed...he was...well...they were not fighting, now, and neither seemed to possess some overwhelming yen to rip the other’s throat out.

For now, that seemed enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the Destroyer awoke and came to, the first thing that struck him was an odd little remembrance from Kamaria’s infancy.

As was typical for the Destroyer’s tribe, his people liked to profess that they’d been given an advanced muscular system as a boon from the Moondragon.  Their muscles were stronger and healed at a quicker pace, they would boast.  Truthfully, if one conducted a comparative study between the tribes and their abilities to heal, the time taken for such a process would be no shorter or longer.  Certainly the rate was much higher than that of dominant species from many planets, including Xandar, but, generally across the species, it was a fairly uniform number. There were, however, odd outlier individuals that healed at quicker or slower rates than average.

The Destroyer’s wife had long suspected her husband to possess one such outlier rate.  Admittedly, such an observation may have been tempered by wishful thinking and bias, and she was clever enough to have awareness of it, but that did not stop her from sharing such a remark with her beloved.

“Compared to our fellow tribesmen,” his wife began, as she was carving out something very intricate on his back one day, “your scars heal more swiftly.”

The Destroyer was between waking and dozing off, but he remained standing and harnessed as he often was during this process, so the significance of her words did not immediately strike him.  A little unusually for their session, their little baby had been tucked into a bundle that had been secured to her father’s very broad chest.  It might have been the sleepiness in him, but, as his little daughter stared up with her big eyes and blinked so slowly, Drax couldn’t help but notice how his infant daughter seemed to be studying his features.  When he would wince, she would make a little displeased sound, so he’d stopped himself from wincing.  But, that didn’t stop her little squeaks.  When his wife would inadvertently cut a little deep, and he’d managed to suppress some resulting shift in expression, his little girl would make a sad sort of gurgle, almost as if begging her mother to stop.  It was then the Destroyer would arouse himself from near sleep and give his most terrifying assurance.

“Little one,” he would start in a soothing tone, “A mere cut is not enough to injure your Father so fatally.  I have been cut before, and stabbed much deeper, but I have survived every attempt on my life.  If I would not outlive something like this, you would know.”  And, each time the Destroyer gave his word, his daughter’s little brows would knit, yet she’d almost nod as if to accept his claim.

At the time his wife had shared her observation, Drax had been half-falling asleep and half-engaged in a sort of staring contest with his kid.  His infant gave a very indignant pout.

She knew; she must have known that he was studying her in return.

How odd it felt.

Was this normal behavior for a child, freshly birthed from her mother’s womb?  Were they all so empathetic and observant?  Admittedly, the Destroyer’s knowledge of children was fairly limited.

Hovat finished brushing in some chemical compound into her husband’s back, before sneaking to the front, behind their daughter, and suddenly grasping their kid with an excited squeal parting from her lips.  The man was uncertain why such a thing stuck out to him at the time, but, just a split-second before his wife sprung onto their kid, their little daughter turned her head to face her mother.  (Perhaps Hovat had been sloppy, and Kamaria heard her before she made her move?  Perhaps.)

Kamaria still enjoyed this little baby game and matched her mother’s volume with a happy little laugh of her own.

“Husband,” his wife continued rather sternly, as she brushed her fingertips on her baby’s forehead and placed a gentle little kiss on the child’s cheek.  “Was your head somewhere else?”

“Yes and no,” the Destroyer admitted, whilst willing himself into a state of comparatively higher awareness.  “It remained on my neck, and it also drifted to less rational regions.”

“I’d remarked on your ability to heal,” Hovat informed her husband, as she watched their little one reach out of her bundle and for her mother with a greedy little lick of her lips.  Somehow, the pair of them knew their child hungered.  They weren’t sure exactly if it was due to becoming more acclimated to their child or some latent parental recognition, but they’d seen it was there.  His wife wrapped her arms around her husband’s shoulders, but not so tightly that their daughter was squeezed with more tightness than what was needed, and began to undo the bundle.  “I’ve seen places outside of our tribe with people who heal at your rate, but they achieve this same ability with prayer and discipline.”

“I possess discipline,” Drax insisted, switching his gaze with his wife and their baby.

“A different discipline than the one you often possess,” his wife added, as she let the ties of Kamaria’s bundle fall to the sides, but leaned a little closer so that their child remained balanced atop and between her parents’ upper chest areas.  “One gained through very intense concentration on simply healing.  As far as I can tell, you heal at this rate even while thinking of a great many things concurrently.”  With a little laugh and a sweet nuzzle to her daughter’s head, Hovat took the bundle in her hands and, then, brought it closer to her heart.  Their impatient little child made small, grabbing motions.  “Do you know how you are able to do such a thing, my love?”

The Destroyer watched, thinking on an answer, as his wife loosened her top and brought Kamaria close to feed.  Their daughter needed no further provocation to eat.  “I’m uncertain how to explain something I did, without knowing I even did it.  I suppose...I spent enough of my life injured and immobilized and my systems grew tired of such a state.”

“That doesn’t make much sense,” his wife laughed.

“No,” Drax admitted.  “But things that make sense don’t always feel as right as senseless things like this.”  Admittedly, such a claim had made more sense in his head.

Things had felt different with Kamaria around.  Well, they were different.  Drax had forgotten how they’d acted before they had a daughter and how much Kamaria truly influenced their behavior.

Hm.

Yes.

The Destroyer, then, willed himself out his reverie and turned his attentions to his body.  In far too long a time span deemed usual for such a task, the Destroyer’s neck turned, swivelling his head and thereby turning his sights towards his feet.  Although his injured form had been placed lifted onto a cheap little cot, a manner of blanket had yet to be placed over his legs.  His boots, however, had been removed.  Thus, his bare toes were fully in his line of vision.  With a squint of his eyes, the Destroyer began issuing this message:

You know who I am, yes?  I am Drax the Destroyer.  To wed my childhood sweetheart, I had slain nearly forty men.  Over the span of my lifetime, by my count, I have slain a total of sixty.  And there are possibly some that I have omitted from my memory.  I have been humbled, shown the sins I had passively acquiesced to and the dangerous results of my poisonous ways.  I have outlived my own father, my mother, and my predecessor.  I wish to make amends with my erstwhile enemies and return to my family, but, to do this, I cannot remain abed.  As I have willed you to heal at a speed notable to my beloved, I compel you.  My body, I have long treated you as a slave to my mind and my spirit.  I despised you, for failing to live up to some imagined standard and for your limitations.  Now I implore you to coalesce with my mind and soul, which I know were joined by the intervention of my former enemy and my father’s.

I command you to live, and let me live.

I compel you to move with me.

Do not be my enemy.

Move.

And, with this invocation, the Destroyer had commanded his larger toe to move.

Well.

It was a start.

As time went on, the Destroyer expanded his attention to compelling more and more of his body; simultaneously, he reviewed his memories of Kamaria.  Neath the lens, warranted by the unusual circumstances he had endured over the past...however long, now, he’d been journeying, these memories gained a very unusual flavor.  Odd little details and quirks, which had always present in his little girl, stood out more prominently than before.  Eccentric claims and unusual little stares hinted to something that his hunter’s mind and soldier’s will carefully calculated.

How lonely his little daughter must have been, to have kept such a thing to herself for so long.  By the time he’d regained control over his legs, he’d gained insight of his little baby’s talents.  In the time he’d finally moved his terribly sore arms, he’d already forgiven what she’d done, accepting she had used her gifts without knowing what they were.  As he sat up, on his cot, he swayed away regrets that he’d disbelieved such things were possible and dismissed her fancies as little fits of madness.  As he finally got out of his cot and stood, the Destroyer came to a resolution; from this point, to the best of his abilities, he would not allow his kid to deal with the burdens of her power alone.  Him, his wife, and their kid would endure this together.

For now, in this room, there was an excellent resource that could be consulted over this matter.

“Mutilator,” Drax the Destroyer began, in a terribly hoarse voice, as he turned his head and attentions to his former enemy’s chair.  But before this favor could be asked of her, the Destroyer’s eyes met with those of another.

The Peacemaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you can't really have a 'Guardians' thing without some pop culture references. Because this is an origin story for Drax the Destroyer, I tried to be somewhat subtle with the references I've littered throughout this fic. The one in this chapter's probably blatant to anyone that saw the film referenced, but oh well.


	17. Fascinating Rhythm, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://youtube.com/watch?v=pwfwC0KHnVs)

The Destroyer said nothing, thought nothing, as the Peacemaker stood in his doorway and peered inside with a horribly unreadable expression on her visage.  The first thing that he did, after breaking eye-contact, was to scan the room for Manaba.  Sure enough, the Mutilator remained as he’d last seen her (sitting straight while in a deep sleep).  The next thing was to search the ground, for his boots and his knives.  But they were nowhere to be seen.  So, instead, the Destroyer clenched both of his hands into fists, clenched his teeth, and resettled his weight in a slight crouch.  A fighter’s stance.

“I respect many things that you have done,” Drax the Destroyer began addressing one of his homeworld’s eldest and most revered, in as firm a tone as he could.  “But I also find many of your actions inexcusable.”

“You know what your daughter is, then,” the Peacemaker replied as a statement, rather than a question.

“You did not have my permission to take that from my mind and you will not speak of my daughter,” the Destroyer commanded, without shifting in his place.  “I will not allow you to manipulate her; I will not allow you to manipulate the Mutilator any longer either.”

“Destroyer,” Pax addressed her opposite so neatly, as she made her way over to Manaba.  The wizened one’s expression softened.  An old, bony hand of hers was raised, so slowly, and brushed against the sharp brow of the younger woman’s head.  “It was her or Meda that I had to bring.  Although pregnant, Manaba felt she was better suited for this task since she still possessed all of her senses.  It was she that asked to go in her sister’s place, and you were told she’d asked me to do what I’d done for her safety. Her pregnancy was something she wished to keep a secret from all, out of fear that the one she wished never to learn of it would.”  The older woman leaned in and pressed her old lips against the twin’s forehead.  “I would not love Manaba more than if I’d birthed her myself; I did not enjoy using my influence on her will, but I knew that I had to.  If you were placed in this position, what would you’ve done?”

“I would have told her that I trusted her judgement and would not need to resort to such a length to insure the safety of her and her unborn child.”

“Children.  She’s expecting twins, Drago,” the Peacemaker cooed in a manner that the Destroyer did not find appropriate for this sort of conversation at all.

“Is it in this world or another,” the Destroyer somewhat mockingly queried.  Although his memory was imperfect in many places, when it recalled earlier conversations, it could be so precise.  The Peacemaker turned away from Manaba, staring at the man with her eyes as immense and foreboding as full moons foretelling strong tides.  “You speak often of destiny and other worlds--ethereal things to those of us bound only to this mortal coil.  But I ask you when was the last time that you simply looked at what was in front of you?  Not as something that you wished it to be, but could not be bent to your will.  I am not my father; I had spent too long wishing I were, but I have accepted that I must merely be Drax the Destroyer.”

The Peacemaker looked on, terribly fascinated.  But, perhaps, not for the right reasons.  For, as soon as Drax the Destroyer finished his speech, the old woman’s lips stretched to the sides into a sort of condescending smile.  And, then, they parted with a soft, but cutting, little peal of laughter.

“You are so close, Destroyer,” the woman claimed.

“To what?”  The winding way that she spoke--so riddled, so twisted--was beyond what the Destroyer could comprehend, let alone tolerate.

“To realizing your full potential,” was her response.  “There is one more thing that you must accept, but that is for another time.  For now, I think that the progress that you’ve made is fairly pleasing.  Drax.”  This had to be some sort of trick.  It had to be.

“I have proclaimed you as my enemy,” the Destroyer clarified, as if his intentions were not clear enough.  To further emphasize his point, his arms were raised higher.

“What is it that makes you believe we are enemies?”  Oh, not this game again.

Groaning, with his hands falling only a little, “We disagree about very fundamental things.  Such as the right to privacy, personal boundaries, and…” how was he to phrase it?  “Free will.”  Yes.  That seemed more or less sufficient.  “I believe that they ought to be respected.  Your actions and, thereby, your spirit seem to indicate otherwise.”

“In my way, I do respect them,” the Peacemaker corrected, as if he were a little child that had insisted that the leaves of a tree were purple when, in fact, on his planet they were green.

“I do not find your way remotely respectful,” the Destroyer curtly put in.

“Not yet in this world,” she claimed with a slight nod.  “But I’ve seen it done in others, some realized and some potential.”  The more she spoke like this, the more the Destroyer longed for the ritualistic dullness that came with their daily prayer square.  “None of what I say is making sense to you yet, is it?”

“Many things do not make sense to me,” the Destroyer had to admit with the kind of humility only someone with his bizarre accumulation of experiences could emote.  “But I no longer care to hear of senseless things that are irrelevant to my life.”

The smile on the Peacemaker’s face faded a little, somehow whilst managing to retain its kindness that softened her features.  “But it is terribly essential to your daily life, even if you don’t understand it.”

A pang struck his stomach, most uncomfortably.  He’d believed that he’d steeled himself from her manipulations...unless...this wasn’t a manipulation; reluctantly, the Destroyer lowered his stance and dropped his arms to his sides.  “How is it that you see things, then?”

“I see multiple worlds at once,” the Peacemaker replied so eagerly.  “All iterations concurrently.  All people that have existed, will exist, and could exist.  All of their potentials, realized and unrealized.  All of their motivations, good and bad.  I see it emanating from you--from all versions of you--and from everyone else.  I see all spirits, all bodies, and all minds.”

“With radiation,” the Destroyer could vaguely recall.

“For lack of a better word,” Pax had to admit.  “It is the closest approximation of what it can be called on this plane.”  How odd it was, to watch the Peacemaker as she talked of this.  There was something in her features that changed before him.  Lit up, not in an absorbingly immense manner.  There was something almost energetic in this inelegance, a delight coloring each delineation.  Almost like a child, recalling a little jaunt to hunt.  Relish with each thing that she spoke.

Yet, her enthusiasm did nothing to make any of these claims make any more sense.  At the least, it made it harder to consider her his enemy.  A harmless oddity, at best.  Alright, mostly harmless.  With abilities that had given her morals far different than his own.  What had she done with her vast powers?  Tried to prevent unnecessary conflicts and attempt to maintain peace on their planet.  He could not find it in him to agree with her methods, but the results…?

“I have bored you,” the Peacemaker noted, not at all seeming terribly bitter about her assessment.

“Not entirely,” Drax rather politely disagreed, while placing his hands in his pockets.

“But you wish to speak of something else,” Pax guessed and, to be fair, this time, she was correct.

“I wish to ask numerous things,” Drax began.  “I had thought that we had embarked on this journey to speak with Nova Prime in person, because our words would have seemed more sincere.  If--if I asked what your true intentions were, would you give an honest answer?”

“Destroyer, there is no purpose for me to lie.”  And Drax knew this to be true.  “It is entirely for that reason.”

“Not to use your talents, should negotiations go badly,” the Destroyer cautioned, watching for some odd change in the Peacemaker’s expression.

“If I were to do that, Destroyer, I would need to remain on Xandar for the rest of my days, to insure that Nova Prime and her successors would remain in whatever state of mind I’d induce her and them into,” and, judging from her very casual tone of voice, it seemed to Drax that the Peacemaker had no interest in remaining on Xandar for such a purpose.

“Why is it that we were assembled,” the Destroyer asked, on behalf of Manaba and upon recalling her fear of destiny’s role in their recruitment.

“That was the way things fell in this plane.  In the best one, it was your father and Meda that went on the journey.  But, with this configuration, things could still go into many ways.”

For a moment, he felt envious of that other universe wherein his father was well and Meda was, assumedly, not crippled beyond capability of enduring space travel.  Perhaps it was in this other universe that his mother was well and Manaba peaceably underwent her pregnancy.  But, in another, the moment was swept away.  For this was not the world he knew, that he treasured very much.  “How is it that this world can branch off into different results--and why is it that the other world’s fate was set?”

“It is--it is complicated to explain,” the Peacemaker began, leaning forward and gesturing with her hands.  “It is a little like...swimming in a stream.  When you stand outside of a stream, you are able to watch others swim in it and you can accurately guess where the tides will take them.  When you are swimming in a stream, you are overwhelmed by the waters and you see all of the directions you could take.”  This made a fair amount of sense to Drax, when put this way.  “In all of the routes I’d seen in this world, in the long-run, we are best-off making a peace treaty with Xandar.  But, this route is imperfect and could have unfavorable consequences.”  This was something that, in his heart of hearts, Drax had always known to be true.  Yet, hearing it said aloud did not give him any sense of relief.

“Those were what my mother and father had personally resisted for phases upon phases,” Drax noted, his eyes narrowing.  “More Xanarians moving to our planet.  Using up its resources.  Selling awful products to our people.  Perhaps thrusting its culture upon us, and enforcing its rules.  If not killing us directly, perhaps murdering us indirectly.”  Try as Drax could to recall the Xandarians on this ship, who had helped him, at the moment, he could only think of the cruel gentrification that would befall his home-planet.

“You feel personally as if you are betraying your own parents by doing this, let alone feeling guilt over holding a grudge against those Xandarians that worked to save your life,” the Peacemaker observed so truly.  “Yet, you could have retreated into the mountains and hid yourself away instead of agreeing to take this journey.  Why is it that you remained?”  Why was it that the Peacemaker asked such things, when she could have simply stolen these intentions from his innermost thoughts?

Oh.

Of course.

“You ask this so that I can know the answer as well,” Drax remarked aloud, to which the Peacemaker bestowed a more generous smile.  “I am here because--” it surely wasn’t because he believed in peace with the Xandarians.  At least, not at first.  And it wasn’t because he’d felt remorse over what he’d done to force the Xandarian colonists off his planet (again, not at first).  After a careful pause, the answer came to him just as it left his lips.  “I am here because I want my daughter to have a future, I want my wife to remain safe, and I wish for a means to protect my people.  Because I know, as we are, we stand no chance against Ronan and his ilk.”  A second pause.  And, then, “but, if it were possible, I wish that we were able to do this without trading a great deal of our freedom and identity.  Because, surely, there will be Xandarians that will not see us as equals.  We are a small planet, and most of us do not speak their language or understand their ways.”

“It could go that way,” the Peacemaker sighed, not at all hiding this uncomfortable truth.  “We should keep our wits about us, when we negotiate a deal.  But it would be foolish to think that we could make such a treaty without sacrificing anything.  Our planet was already changing, but we must accept that, to survive, we must let it change further.  We must open ourselves to trust others, even if we must give something of ourselves to expect anyone to give any aid to us in return.”  Again, truths the Destroyer knew too well.  But, as the Peacemaker spake them, there was something almost assuring in such a rough plan.  “Is that all that you wished to talk of with me?”

“Yes,” the Destroyer replied slowly, almost automatically.  Then: “Wait.  No--I have one more thing.  My daughter.  You wish to train her.”

“If it is her choice,” the Peacemaker clarified, still smiling and, now, tilting her head a little to the side.

There was something else that the Destroyer was about to ask, but, just as he was about to ask it, the question simply slipped out of his mind.  Odd.  At the time, it felt terribly important to ask.

“I will not seek her out,” the Peacemaker added.  “When she embarks on her teenage journey, she may find me or arrive at the temple of my order.  There, she may come under my tutelage.”

That need to ask...whatever it was that he’d longed to ask morphed into an odd, light sort of elation.  It went against every thought that had been running through his head just moments ago...whatever those were...but it hardly seemed to matter.  For, with his mind’s eye, a brief vision presented itself.  A thought of his glorious daughter, having the sorts of resources that she’d needed to reach this great summit.

Yet, there was something hidden in this height that did not sit well with his gut.

“What is the matter, Destroyer?”  The Peacemaker looked on, so very concerned, as she approached him with her hands clasped.

“These abilities of hers cannot come from thin air,” the Destroyer began, as he stepped back with a hand reaching behind.  His fingers touched air, slowly feeling around for nothing until the very tips touched the end of his cot.  With that edge found, the Destroyer stepped closer and sat.  “Were they bestowed upon her by some deity?”

“In a way,” the Peacemaker agreed with a smile and an easy amble.  “Such abilities are carried in recessive genes.  Both parents must carry this potential in them, in order to hand it to their child; even if they themselves never unlock this ability or did not have both parents hand such a thing down to them, they may still pass it on.”

Such talks of genetics were common at the schools in his tribe.  But, on battlefields, matters like this were less often discussed.  Thus, the Destroyer only barely understood this explanation of the Peacemaker’s with what little he recalled from his formal schooling (before his father took him out of the enrollment) and the occasional answers his father’d given to questions concerning why certain species could fly and others could not.

“Every one of our species carries this potential, even if they do not practice using it,” the Peacemaker added, slowly making her way closer to him.

“And the Xanadarians--other species--”

“Some carry this same trait, but it may be passed down differently,” the Peacemaker clarified, not even waiting for him to ask his question.

“Is there a reason, then, that you make such an offer for my daughter and not others?”  There had been an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, something unpleasant that was planted and, then, began to blossom.  As if somebody was scratching its inside with a bough.  (Not that he’d experienced such a sensation first-hand, and, therefore, would have been able to verify that this feeling of his was exactly like that.)  Maybe more like the dreaded imagining of such a thing.  Yes.  That sounded about right.  And, as he watched the Peacemaker, that dreaded imagining of the thing morphed at a faster pace.  Was it when those lips of hers curled up into a tighter smile?  Or, perhaps when she fully flashed those teeth of hers (which were also very carefully sharpened now)?  No, it had to be when those moonish eyes of hers flashed so fearsomely.  In that instance, he felt, again, like a little child, staring up into the sky and barely comprehending what stood in front of him, although it was so close yet so far away.  This woman was multidimensional, existing more than on the only plane he was capable of perceiving.  Compared to the warriors he’d encountered, her presence felt infinitely more vast--terrifying, in its own way, yet also nurturing, as if it could hold within itself the entirety of existence.  Within a few steps, the woman had made her way to him.  And all that the mighty Destroyer was capable of doing, the very same Destroyer who had killed forty men to marry his wife, was to stare up, transfixed, in terribly consuming awe.

And, it was while looking into those pale eyes of hers that her glamour fell.  No longer did her spirit emit that essence of a rather charismatic, almost sweet old woman, but it hinted to something far more vast.  Something older than every history, older than the oldest tribes and tales, older than the creation of the first of his species and the others native to his planet.  Before him stood an old woman.  That was what those senses of his, that he’d often used, had told him.  His eyes, which were sharp enough to perceive something from the equivalent of many, many miles away.  His nose, which alerted him to the presence of prey.  His ears, which acted as ears did.  Yet, there was a sense deeper within him that told him otherwise.  

This also was not just an old woman.

“What are you really,” the Destroyer very slowly whispered, unblinklingly, as if he were uttering a prayer to a caring god.  It was in the presence of this woman that his perceptions were melting away.  Any sense of single-identity and personal boundary no longer made sense, and none of him could no longer remain hidden.  “You are not of my species--”

**_“I am, and I am not,”_** the woman-shaped...whatever replied, in that same voice she’d spoken with for so long.  Yet, as she spoke, more than his ears perceived it, appreciating the words as they were formed and came into being. **_“This is simply a form that I’ve had to adopt, as it can be perceived on this plane.  I have not revealed my entirety.  It would overwhelm you, Drax the Destroyer; perhaps drive you to perfect madness.  And there is much that you must still accomplish with your senses somewhat in tact.”_**

“You are--”  The Destroyer stopped himself, almost breaking out of the spell he’d been placed under.  The ridiculousness of his next claim, before it parted from his lips, had been strong enough to do that.  And, for a brief instance, he was back to the waking reality that he knew.  Yet, a mere tap on his shoulder, from the old woman, was powerful enough to bring him back to this...for lack of a better word, higher awareness.

**_“I am the one worshipped by your tribe as the haughty Moondragon,”_ ** the Peacemaker claimed, looking terrifyingly joyous.  **_“And I wish to make your daughter into my successor.”_ **


	18. Stand by Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter song: https://youtube.com/watch?v=23I8OtXCs3o)

**The crew of the** **_Harbinger_ ** **is small, but their number suited the spacecraft’s limited capacity.**

**There is the crew’s appointed leader, Niels Grendelaar, who is also one of the more senior members of the group and a decent man; unlike the others, he is not a native Xandarian.  His father had served one of the prior crews of the** **_Harbinger_ ** **, after taking his indefinite leave from his time with the Nova Corps, and he had met the woman who became Grendelaar’s mother aboard this very craft, when she had stowed away in the guise of a boy.  Niels was conceived and born aboard this very starcraft; he’d often said that he would face his Maker in it as well.  A soul like his, that was born in transit, often spends its life in that exact same way.  His childhood was spent among the stars, and, if his craft did not require fuel or funds to operate, Grendelaar would have spent the entirety of his life drifting from galaxy to galaxy.  As the** **_Harbinger_ ** **needed such things, it was often taxied between Xandar and locales that interested its captain.  Of the worlds Grendelaar had seen in his lifetime, the only one that he’d considered his second home (to his starcraft) was our homeworld.  The cultures and people of this planet, he’d said, all possess a sense of curiosity and discovery that other planets and their people, so settled into their positions, lacked.  Its people were old, but the culture?  Young, thriving, developing.  If he were capable of doing so, Grendelaar would have traveled to the planet on his own.  But a ship often wants more than one person, tending to its needs and its hunger.  Thus, Grendelaar brought aboard five other men.**

**Grendelaar’s second-in-command is a bright pink Krylorian by the name of Huhrrtt Pehr Levvarr; Huhrrtt was one of many Thorans, protectorate officials tasked with the duty of protecting Xandar’s Worldmind and the ship’s oldest.  While other planets doubted in an afterlife, Xandar had developed a system of preserving the minds of its deceased.  All who passed on became assimilated into the collective consciousness of the Worldmind, forever preserving eons of knowledge and allowing such wisdom to be passed on to younger generations.  While Huhrrtt had felt privileged and honored as one of the few and first Krylorians to be selected for such a duty, the role was never one that he grew into.  And it was after many Xandarian years of service that he’d walked into a bar and had a chance meeting with Grendelaar, then, almost immediately thereafter, retired from his duties as a Thoran.  It was through Levvarr’s connections that Grendelaar was able to make any sales and livelihood as a merchant.  A person like Grendelaar, who spend his life adrift the stars and among sailors, carried a sort of brusque air which was excellent for leading men on a mission in the stars but less so for gathering finances and inspiring confidence among sponsors.  This was a service that the former Thoran agreed to provide for the** **_Harbinger_ ** **.  What was it that Huhrrtt received in return?  From an early age, the Krylorian had always possessed an interest in religion, an interest that only grew with his time as Thoran.  Living, knowing that the afterlife was a scientific fact on at least one planet, awakened a hunger of knowledge in him.  What was it that other planets believed, and how did these people believe when such things were not scientific facts?  It was through observation of the peoples he’d encountered on his journeys with Grendelaar that he’d gathered inventory on such questions.  What he enjoyed most of the people from our world was that, unlike some of the other peoples he’d encountered, there were individuals that had asked him, rather than him simply asking them, of how other planets lived.  (Mostly Grendelaar’s crew spent time in the North and East, where the tribes were comparatively friendlier to strangers.)  Some of the peoples he’d encountered thought of him as something of a priest, a title which he, after correcting the people many times, eventually accepted.  There was said to be a forest wherein knowledge from other worlds could be heard, but, when he finally journeyed to such a place, he’d heard nothing.  According to the crew’s scientist and navigator, Dugg Jiraoud, it was very possible that there was either some fume from the fauna which reacted to these people’s internal chemicals or that such knowledge was spread via wavelengths that only these people could perceive.  In spite of this, whenever he was able, he would still journey to this forest, sit among the other young folks who’d journeyed at great lengths to such a region, and he would meditate with them.  The sponsors and other business connections were often assured that this latest journey was to protect their investment.**

**Dugg Jiraoud is far less interested in the planet’s spiritualism.  Jiraoud was considered one of the foremost experts in cartological and astrological interests, with only a minor dabbling into some archaeology and sociology in his undergraduate studies.  Not an innovator, mind.  To his dismay, he had reached the point of his studies when he worried that he was nothing more than an echo, a repeater of others’ excellent ideas.  So it was that, by his choice, he’d left the University he’d secured tenure with and opted to continue his studies among the stars, in search of a new idea that others had not thought or spoken of in his fields of studies.  What interested him most of that planet was not its people, but the singular landmass upon which the world’s population lived.  That, and the planet’s rather unusual development.  For instance, on most other planets, colder regions tended to exist further from the 0-degree latitude and it was in these colder regions that people developed languages with far more consonants than vowels.  Yet, on this planet, the temperature was fairly uniformly hot and these more complex languages developed in the west, rather than north or south.  There were a few theories he’d begun developing concerning this and the planet’s other quirks, but knew well that he required more decades of careful testing in order to support his claims.  Perhaps, through this study, the secrets behind these people’s super-strength and excellent longevity would be found?  Jiraoud maintains very meticulous notes and restudies them every night before sleeping, hopeful that he would maybe find such vital information one day and, perhaps, be able to transmit it to other peoples.**

**Dr. Rahn Tikhonravov shares a scientific interest in our planet, but his fascinations are not so immediately visible.  While Jiraoud meticulously studied the land, the atmosphere, and the way that it shaped our peoples, Tikhonravov studied our medicines and our cuisines.  It may be unusual that the crew’s medical expert also served as its chef, but, to the** **_Harbinger_ ** **’s very economic captain, such a dual-role made a great deal of sense.  The cook of a consistently moving operation must be able to use whatever local ingredients are available, since there is only so long that dried meats and powdered foods can last.  A practicing physician may not be as qualified to determine what is edible and inedible, as one versed solely in cuisines would be, but they are more qualified than others.  Tikhonravov is of the A’askvarii who hailed from O’erlanii, the third planet from the star Deneb; he was the first of his immediate family to be born on Xandar.  His family had instilled in him a strict work-ethic and the subconsciously implanted mentality that his worth was tied to his productivity.  When he is not preparing meals, he often acts as a healer in whatever village his crew resides with.  Some villages in the North adhere to very strict medical rituals.  In order to use his license in these parts, he has had to learn some of these intricate rituals; when local healers would refuse to teach him their customs, he wouldn’t object.  His people are pacifistic.  Whenever he can, the doctor avoids any sort of conflict or aggression.**

**As is necessary for a business venture, there is one member of the crew who was dealt solely with Units.  This member is known as Bradbury.  It is not known if this is his actual name, or if this moniker is simply willed and bestowed onto him by the Universe.  The rest of the crew often remarked, in private conversation, that they ought to ask what his true name was, but, when they saw Bradbury once more, they immediately forgot about asking such a thing.  The Peacemaker and I scanned his mind, to find if he has talents like ours, but we found nothing conclusive.  Bradbury is of the race of Rainers and, as a Rainer, he was gifted with cybernetic implants at a very early age.  To him, this machinery is no different than a finger or a toe.  His dreams are of numbers and algorithms, making him a very perfect fit for this job.  Every account for food, every expenditure on fuel, every instance of significant interaction spent by the crew was committed to his eidetic memory (a feature not provided by his mental implants).  He lives a very regimented schedule, eating, working, relieving his bowels, and sleeping at the most exact times calculated for maximum productivity; he has never taken ill, rarely said an unnecessary word (the few times in his life that he had spoken), and never lost track of a single Unit expenditure.  This venture has lost more money than gained.  Even in potentia, Bradbury knows that an exchange with our planet and Xandar would gain very little monetarily.  At best, it would break even.  At worst, they would lose thousands of Units of investments and it would take hundreds of phases (which translate to many more Xandarian days) to profit enough to cover costs.  Yet, there is a greater loss that Bradbury calculated, should the crew abandon our planet, and that is the massive loss of life.**

**The final member of this crew is one that you know all too well, Destroyer.  Fox Valor was not among the first few that Grendelaar had asked to join his crew, and, were it solely up to Grendelaar, Valor never would have taken a single step onto the** **_Harbinger_ ** **.  Fox’s full name is Faux Ziegfeld Valor, fifth of his name.  His father, Faux Ziegfeld Valor, fourth of his name, was a prominent investor in this crew’s journeying.  It was on the crew’s previous trip to Xandar that Faux IV spoke privately with Huhrrtt, uneasy of the venture’s overall lack of success.  The older Valor and Huhrrtt had been friends since childhood, having grown up in a poorer part of Xandar and spending a considerable amount of time in a closely-knit childhood clique, an adolescent gang, and sharing a room at University (which they had both worked terribly hard to pay for).  The older Valor did not know his father, the previous Valor, and only shared an indirect word with him, via the senior Valor’s final will.  It was in this will that Valor the third explained why he left his wife and legitimate heir in squalor: so that his son would learn the lessons of poverty, to gain humility that only the poorest could obtain.  The fourth Valor never found satisfaction with this answer.  When his father’s estate and business was turned over to him, he provided a home for his mother and strove to give his son everything that he’d never had growing up; when the fifth reached adolescence, he grew to regret that decision.  Fox bastardized his own name, maintaining a lifestyle that his father was deeply shamed by.  A great deal of his funds went to whores (whose practice is illegal on Xandar), to drink, to vehicles of pride and foolishness.  His manners were selfish and disrespectful.  This serious talk, between Huhrrtt and Faux, happened to take place when it was time to place Fox at a University, and it was after this talk that Huhrrtt and Faux came to a rather odd agreement.  Valor would not pull his sponsorship on the condition that the** **_Harbinger_ ** **welcomed his legitimate heir and taught him necessary hardships.  Huhrrtt had operated as the ship’s last mechanic and, in the year-and-then-some that the younger Valor has lived among this crew, every mechanic’s responsibility was slowly taught and, thereafter, turned over to him.  Of the crew, only the Krylorian cares for Fox.  The rest are indifferent, or, in the case of the Captain, whose birthright was the** **_Harbinger_ ** **and had it gifted to him on the deathbed of its last captain, his beloved godfather, incredibly wary.  There have been times when Grendelaar left Fox marooned in remote areas, as punishment for some ill-operating engines, and Fox would remain until Huhrrtt convinced the Captain otherwise.  Sometimes the young Valor was left for multiple phases, having nothing but an old-fashioned pistol with bullets to fend and feed himself with.  It was on the insistence of Huhrrtt that the others held informal lessons for Fox, mostly on the rationale that “if [they’d]...rather work with someone who was not completely useless,...[they] could teach him usefulness”.  From this crew, the younger Valor has learned much science, business, astrology, mechanics, languages native to our planet and those of others, etc.  His father has not spoken with him in the year-and-then-some that he has spent among this crew.**

The Destroyer took all of this in, as he stood by the doorway of the rather cramped breakfasting bay alongside the Mutilator.  Today, the Mutilator’s yellow pigments were applied in a less violent manner (simply in huge ovals around her eyes and to define her thin, angled lips).  Before them, breaking fast at the bay’s single table, were most of the Xandarian crew (save Niels and the doctor) and the Peacemaker.

**The doctor is already washing dishes and Niels prefers to break his fast at the** **_Harbinger’s_ ** **controls.**

It seemed a pity to the Destroyer.  Of the crew, he had been most interested in speaking with this pair.   **You will have a time to speak with them later.** Yes.  Of course.  He would have to.  But, there was something missing from the Mutilator’s brief introduction of this starcraft’s odd crew.  To whom did the Destroyer owe his his life and more?  As was a large part of his culture and their guiding moral-system, kindness was always to be met with greater kindness and treachery with worse treachery.  As the Destroyer was fairly moral, in his people’s sense, he sought to obey this greatest rule.  Not once, during her mentally-transmitted introduction, did the Mutilator turn to her side and look at the Destroyer.  How odd they must have looked, simply standing by the doorway, staring, and speaking nothing.  There were times when crewmembers would look over at them, confused.  The pink, large Krylorian would beckon them to join, in his most jovial manner, but they would turn him down with a polite nod.  The very thin Jiraoud would adjust his eye-piece (goggles, they were called), perhaps theorizing why this pair did not join them.  Bradbury, on his strict schedule, never once looked away from his plate while eating, but, as he was aware that his motions were being observed, he did eat with some more caution than usual.  Of the crew, Fox rose his head away from his plate the most often and gazed at the pair.  Sometimes there was guilt in his expression, other times disappointment and frustration.  Throughout the mealtime, he said nothing to the other crewmembers or the Peacemaker (although the Peacemaker and the Krylorian would try to speak of simple things with him).

And the Peacemaker.  How odd it was, to see her appearing so small once again and speaking so normally.  Her glamour was on, entirely, and it had been hard to believe that, mere moments ago, her tiny, wrinkled form could contain a spirit so great, so maddening.

“--most planets believe that there was a time in their histories when gods walked on their surface,” Huhrrtt put in, while speaking with the Peacemaker, between spoonfuls of powdered egg and dried meats.  His complexion, if possible, appeared pinker than usual, a sign of his lifeblood flowing with excitement, as was common when one spoke of their favored topic.  “Some still believe that gods walk among us.  Can you imagine it?  What would it be, to meet a god?  Do you think you would be able to recognize one immediately?”

“If they should choose it,” the Peacemaker replied, suppressing a smile with teeth that, presently, looked as dulled as a mere old woman’s teeth often did.  The stories of the Moondragon and her haughtiness could not be more proven than they were at this moment.

But the Destroyer had strayed too far from his initial question, with this odd observation.  Surely, the doctor must have examined his damage and bandaged him (although he believed he’d really had no need for such a thing, having healed from worse cuts than that).  But who was it among this motley bunch of Xandarians that had carried him back to his quarters?  He was in no state to have remembered the faces of his saviors.

**Everyone has a narrative running through their heads, and, in these narratives, they all enjoy envisioning themselves as the heroes.  These Xandarians, at their best, read with good intentions.  At their worst, their intentions are patronizing and self-serving (even if they do not suspect it).  Without realizing it, some believe that we are the poor, underprivileged people who would be living in dirt, without their aid, and who need their superior hand and culture to drive us out of our dark age; sometimes, they do not see us as equals, but as things which could allow them to accomplish other ends.  We are the way through which they may exercise their God-given right, of bringing civilization to the uncivilized, a way which they can look back on their people and bloody history with less guilt and shame.  You know well that not all of this is so, but we do still need something from them.  We need respect, Destroyer, and the only way that we have found it, and that it appears we may find it in the vaster Universe, is by allying ourselves more respected planets and obtaining better weaponry to defend ourselves from our enemies.**

None of this seemed relevant to the answer which the Destroyer sought.  He turned over, with a somewhat impatient indignance contouring his facial features.

**You miss the point, Destroyer.  It does not matter which individuals carried you out, because you are simply a part of a larger, necessary movement.  You are the father of a Goddess, and, as her father, you and your wife will have certain duties until Kamaria comes of age and can be instructed by the Peacemaker.  When we return home, our world will change, regardless of what outcome should our diplomacy arrive to.  It will be hardest for the old generation to adjust, but, to survive, they must.  And it is through the example of their elders that the younger generation will learn how to adapt to this changing world, how to act and how to treat our allies in it.  As the father of our Goddess, you must teach your beloved daughter strength, but also compassion and mercy--lest you should wish for our planet to be dominated by a cruel deity.  To teach this, you must practice it well enough so that you may more accurately teach it to her and you must practice it wisely.**

**So you must forgive all of them, even when it is hardest.  Even if they offer nothing in return or try to take advantage of it.  And, then, you must figure out what you must do, if they should do something that would not merit kindness.  A nonviolent punishment, lest you should pass on that impatience to your child and raise a mercurial Goddess who would kill her own people when she deemed it fit.  I cannot help you there, because I could care less for compassion and mercy and understand it less than you do.**

**For the sake of those that carried you to your cot, forgive all of them.  But if you still find yourself unable to do that, at least treat them with civility.**

These words were not as easily absorbed as the simple summations of the  _ Harbinger’s _ crew, as this news of his daughter was still something he was coming to terms with.  His Kamaria had always been special, but he hadn’t recognized it as anything different than that specialness a parent typically assigns their only child.

**I have spoken all that I must, Destroyer.  Now we should sit with the lot of them, as you have neglected to do during the entirety of this trip.**

Drax accepted this insistence with a swallow and a nod, obediently following after Manaba, as she strode out of the doorway and took her place near the Peacemaker.  The blue-green-grey man sat to the right of Manaba, at the left of Bradbury and directly before the younger Valor.

For once, Bradbury broke out of that strict schedule he’d adhered to for so long and set his fork down.  Slowly, his neck turned, so that his face looked directly at the Destroyer’s.  Seeing this through his periphery vision, the Destroyer respectfully turned about and returned this gaze.  What was to happen next?  It was a curious thing, to finally look at a person with whom he’d shared a space with for so long, and, yet, never dared to actually look at.  It was at this very proximity that the Destroyer noticed more, in these first few seconds of direct interaction, than he had through the many days of their journeying.  For instance, the cybernetic implants of the Rainer always made a quiet humming noise.  The noise was far smoother than those of the engines, perhaps indicating finer-made machinery.  Bradbury’s ears, unusually, also appeared pointed.  And, from this proximity, it became more apparent that his skin really wasn’t so light or pink.  It was brown.  Brown, yellow, and maybe a little green.  Had he ever noticed this about Rainers?  Admittedly, the Destroyer had lumped all Xandarians together and neglected to notice such details of them.  For the longest time, they were worth less than nothing and, as were their lives--in fact, he neglected to count Xandarian deaths among the number of lives he had taken and, by this point, could not add their number to his tally because of his inability to recall how many of them he had taken.  A lifetime like his, that had been marred with countless deaths of his people and theirs, made it harder to remember things like this.

But, in this moment, it appeared that none of that history mattered.  For, on the face of this crew’s accountant, there was a small smile--the smallest of smiles that could not be noticed if someone was not sitting at the proximity of the Destroyer--followed by the most respectful bow of the head.

The Destroyer said nothing, but, as odd as it sounded,  felt his throat get heavier and his heart lighter.  Respectfully, the reverent nod and an embarrassed, ill-practiced smile were returned.

It was after this silent exchange that both turned away from each other and paid their attentions elsewhere, Bradbury to his food and the Destroyer to the rather stunned Xandarian sitting before him.

“What the f--”  Fox began to remark, until he’d been nudged by the Krylorian at his left and, almost immediately, he stopped himself; the younger, reedier redhead, then, cleared his throat and spoke in a dialect that, thus far, the Destroyer had never heard Fox speak in.  “Huhrrtt me tell ear-hearing you very-good.”  Oh, Moondragon.  Valor was trying to speak in the Destroyer’s native dialect.  His accent was awful, his disregard for topic-markers made his sentence hard to decipher, his syntax was all over, and his tongue was simply the wrong shape to speak with the lesser number of vowels required.

Yet, the Destroyer could not find any hate for such an attempt.  Fox was trying to maintain a steady eye-contact, as he delivered these words, in the proper manner that one speaks to another on his planet.

“The-time-we-talk-last you about worry your-native-planet soundings.  I--I--shit.”  That last part was not in Drax’s native language.

The Krylorian to Fox’s left and Dugg, who was at Fox’s right, immediately turned over to the younger man, both looking embarrassed.  Well, Huhrrtt appeared so.  Dugg simply looked a little anxious and excited, awaiting to see what would unfold next.

“It is alright,” the Destroyer put in, speaking the old Xandarian dialect that they were taught.  “Let him shit.”  And, he didn’t know why, but Dugg and Fox looked as if they were trying really hard to suppress a laugh.  Drax had said it correctly, yes?  The lifeblood in him was flowing hot, but the violence in him would not be brought forth.  The blue-green-grey man was determined to make it so.  Levvarr cleared his throat, and then the other two ceased their almost laughter.

“Look, you seemed real worried last time we talked,” Fox finally replied, once more in Xandarian, trying very hard to straighten his back and regain a steady eye-contact.  “So--I mean to say it was probably normal for your kind to hear more things than I can.  Sorry for freaking you out--” and the young man was about to end right there, until he shook his head and corrected himself.  “But words’re just words, right?  I gotta do something now, to make up for that?  To make this right?”

How weird it was, that...however long it had been ago, that Valor never would have done such a thing.  Momentarily, the Destroyer savored this; then, he spoke his turn, slouching forward slightly to put the younger man at ease.  “It is alright.”

The young man subconsciously took that signal and eased his position, squaring his shoulders a little more out but not averting his gaze.  “Look.  I said a lotta things and did a lotta dumb stuff--”

“As did I,” the Destroyer admitted.

“Yeah but--you know you and...and the Mutilator were at it for like...five or six days?  And--and then you got back, and...shit you looked bad.  And I felt--”

“It is common for fights to last a long time, where I am from, but we have resolved our matters.”  From the Destroyer’s peripheral vision, he could ascertain Manaba turning to them, in the briefest instance, as if in agreement; then, as quickly as she’d looked over, she turned back to the Peacemaker and resumed her previous position once more.

“Really?”  This seemed like quite a lot for Fox to take in.  “Shit.”  Almost immediately, the younger Xandarian turned to both sides, to see how his elders would react.  As the redhead had Drax’s permission to ‘shit’ now, the others only looked on cautiously through their peripheral vision.  Nothing more.  And, so, the young merchant looked towards the Destroyer once more.  “Shit.”  And, then, he looked a little lower, surprised for a brief moment.  “Did you guys take breaks to eat and...and use the bathroom or sleep?”

“No,” the Destroyer replied very simply.

“How’d you guys do that?”

The answer was as plain as anything, and said as coolly as was appropriate.  “Easily.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the meal, Drax took his leave to occupy his once-held space by the window, in the craft’s control-room.  As was expected, there, by the steering apparatus, was Niels Grendelaar.

The Destroyer simulated the sound of coughing once, to get a hold of Niels’ attention, and, then, addressed him in as respectful a tone as he could muster.  “Grendelaar.”

“Mr. the Destroyer,” Niels received and returned that respect, not with a turn of the head but a simple nod.  “You feeling alright?”

“You have my permission to omit my title.  The doctor had informed me that I am fully recovered from the injuries inflicted on my person by Manaba,” Drax put in, honestly.  “Yourself?”

It was for an odd little moment that Grendelaar said nothing, simply shifting his weight on the balls of his feet and moving his hand along the ship’s apparatus.  “I’m alright, Drax.  Crew and I’s got stuff to handle, before we touch down on Xandar.”  A pause.  “You about ready to make an insincere apology sound as sincere as you can?”

Oh right.  Drax buckled, clicking his tongue and recalling what it was he’d told Niels back then.  How vicious it was, yet how true it had felt.  “I have no need to deliver an insincere apology, not when I have a sincere one to proffer.”

Again, when most would respond with a gasp or something less constrained, Niels returned this claim with a dark, short chuckle.  Odd man, Niels.  “Let’s hear it then.  You’ve got to practice, so it sounds sincere enough for Nova Prime to buy.”

The Destroyer crossed his arms and straightened his back further, while moving his feet a little wider and looser like a fighter’s stance.  “I have been a part of a system that I must now condemn.  My actions, to murder your colonists, upheld an outdated law and flawed belief system.  I no longer see your people as my people’s enemies, but my allies, and I offer to perform an act of contrition so that you may see us in the same way.  I wish to help build a world where your people and mine can work as equals and produce a sustaining society that could benefit us both.  Upon return to my homeworld, I promise that I will fully oppose and abolish any laws that would deny your people’s citizenship to my planet and to rights among our tribes.  So long as you treat us as a part of your society and protect us, your people will be given this same respect.”

Niels took this in silently.  His other hand reached a little beyond the apparatus for a container (called a ‘thermos’, Drax believed), but it fumbled and spilt the scarlet, viscous contents onto the ship’s floor; in frustration, his hand thumped against the steering device.  Yet, the body didn’t turn around to clean up the mess.  

“How does that sound?”

“You really want to make an offer like that, Drax?”

The Destroyer, a little tired of looking at the back of Grendelaar’s head, turned towards the ground.  The thermos emptied itself fairly quickly, layering the surface with a brown-red-savory stain.  Their reflections could not be seen across this spillage, as the soup was not clear enough to allow such a thing.  All that remained of the two of them, over this world contained in the soup, were their dark grey shadows.  “It will not be simple.  I imagine I will have to face many opponents to ratify these laws.  But it is the honorable thing to do.”

“Honor,” Niels repeated, almost to himself.  “I hear that a lot, especially from people on your planet.  I’ve heard people from different cultures say all sorts of things about honor.  To some, honor’s just an excuse people use to get rid of anyone in the way of doing what they want.  To others, honor’s kind of like credit.  Like, if you do more good things, you have more of it.  The more honor you got, in those kinds of places, the better people like you.  What do you think of honor, Mr. the Destroyer?”

“The honor in a person is recognized when they do what they must, to better serve the good of many people,” Drax defined, without pause or doubt.  “A person reveals that they are honorable when they do actions that merit honor.  Even if it should prevent them from acting as they want or if less people like them for it.”  The Destroyer took a breath here, bracing himself to find the words needed to say what he needed to here.  “Conduct much like yours, Grendelaar.”

This was enough to inspire Grendelaar to turn back, looking at the Destroyer once.  “You’re probably the only person who ever called me honorable.”

Curious statement.  The Destroyer responded, with a simple cant of his head.  “Manaba has not called you honorable?  She seems to think fairly highly of you.”

And, just like that, Grendelaar turned forward again.  In that split-second, however, Drax couldn’t help but notice how much redder his face looked when the Mutilator’s name was brought up.  “Manaba and me.  We got a complex relationship.”

Oh.  Oh, oh!  “That is a euphemism--”

Niels cut in, not at all as calm as he’d been for the majority of this conversation.  “For what?  No, you remember what we said about euphemisms?  They’re a way of avoiding talking directly about something you don’t want talked abou--”

Flatly, “You are her paramour.”

“How do you know she’s got para--never mind.  You don’t tell the rest of my crew about this, Drax.  They wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.”  His tone.  Seemed increasingly hasty.  And his shoulders and posture--rolled forward, as if to make the smaller man look even smaller.

“I will not,” Drax said with a steady nod.  Once, twice.  And it was, after that second nod, more mental calculus made itself terribly apparent to the Destroyer.  Manaba was pregnant.  Niels and her were in a relationship.  Yes.  Before his lips would part, to divulge Manaba’s state, a memory of another statement struck him.

Her pregnancy was something she wished to keep a secret from all, out of fear that the one she wished never to learn of it would.

Yes.  Manaba would tell her paramour if and when she deemed it right.  It was not Drax’s choice to make for her.  “You will clean up this mess on the floor, then.  Niels.”

It was to Niels’ blustered, “Yeah.  Gimme a sec,” Drax imitated the Captain’s typical salute and, then, took his leave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Within the next few hours, they would be touching down on Xandar.  The crew quickly busied themselves, after taking their meals, in preparation.  The representatives of the native-world, meanwhile, were in their rooms, gathering their things and readying for a final prayer-square.

The Destroyer looked over his meager belongings, his artifacts of the old world.  His father’s old knives, his knives, the stones he’d given his child before her divinity was made known.  And, it was while looking at this, several things became apparent to him.  How he longed to speak of this with his wife, to have her advice and to hear her sigh so prettily when he shared what he would with her.

Already, in his mind’s eye, he was preparing a request.  In the earlier days of their courtship and marriage, his wife was terribly fond of practicing her carving on his body as she’d carved for the first time on his chest when they were children.  Red rivulets swum about his skin, hazy frames for important remembrances and shapes to strike fear into his enemies.  The largest space that had yet to be fully carved was on his back and, now, his homecoming seemed the right time to finally place something there.  On his back, he wished to have this journey placed.  Flowing from his spine, which connected his brain to the rest of his body, would flow the others that had been on this journey.  He, the Mutilator, the Peacemaker, and Adahy would fly out, while the faces of the six Xandarians who piloted them along to this foreign planet would look on.  Above it all, his father would look on and look up.  Perhaps the spirit that he’d passed on to his son could, at last, be at peace.

The Destroyer looked forward to the songs that his wife would whisper, as she’d work atop her crate and operated on his standing, bound form.  Her assistants would be given time off, as they always were when they had their private sessions.  Perhaps Kamaria would sit and look on, until she’d grow terribly impatient and go out to play.  Then, his wife and he would be alone together.  His wife would laugh, her low glorious laugh, and tell him of things that she would not be able to near their little one.  As would the Destroyer.  Maybe then he could tell her of their daughter’s divinity?

Maybe.

Drax the Destroyer especially looked forward to the warmth and safety of the parlor, as he would stand with his arms suspended, taking in the warm air and drowning in sensations of his wife’s knives on his skin, of her breath on him, and of her sweet songs, lulling him to a pleasant sleep until she would awaken him with those tender lips of hers, the lips that had brought him out of an early grave and restored his life to him.  They would be denizens of a new world, yet this would not bring so much fear as he thought he would have possessed with his beloved at his side.

It was while putting these things away and thinking of this that a knock broke the silence.  There was a shadow by his doorway.  The Destroyer turned, looking on at a regretful Adahy.

Ever since their last encounter, they had not spoken.  This was normal for them.  Before that, they rarely spoke with each other.  Drax had guessed very correctly that it was because the young woman feared him, but he did not know the exact reason until she held his father’s knives close to his throat.

“I can’t face my Mom until I kill you,” she said, so quietly and shamefully.  “I don’t even know why I made a promise like that with her.”

“Then you should not look at her,” the Destroyer responded, tying up his possessions in a bag and, then, standing from his cot.  “At least, until you’ve carried out your oath.”

“I really don’t wanna kill you, though,” Adahy, sometimes called Addie almost whined, tears starting to well in her eyes.  “But I don’t know where to go if I can’t go home.”  Throughout this journey, many things had been made very apparent to the Destroyer.  Yet, why Adahy was brought on was still a mystery to him.  Did the Peacemaker bring her on, so that she could try to murder her lifelong foe and have her own morality thwart her?  Seemed too odd a way to teach such a lesson.  Was it to show him how longtime hate could have dire repercussions?  Again, this was too weird a purpose for such efforts.  Maybe her being here was an accident, mistaken for an action of some significance?  Now that was beyond what the Destroyer knew appropriate for the Moondragon herself.

How unfair it was, that someone like Adahy had to suffer as she did for his sins and those of her father.  How terrible it must have been, to grow in a household with a bitter mother breathing on about avenging her deadbeat, terrible father.  How young she looked, trying to stand so straight and hold back her tears.

“You could remain in my household,” the Destroyer offered, almost as surprised as Adahy now appeared to hear such things come from his mouth.  “It is a small household, but it can welcome another.  When my daughter becomes of age and leaves, you may, then, try again to kill me.  If you should so wish.”

The brown-y woman blinked and, then, said in response, “That’s kinda messed up, innit?”  Xandarian slang.  As was typical for her.

“Many circumstances are messed up,” the Destroyer replied, taking a few steps forward and stopping just a bit before her at his doorway.  “You notice this more and more, as you become older.  Learning to accept it is the hardest thing, but it is also the most vital to growing up.”

Adahy absorbed this response with the most perplexed look on her face, but, after some moments, she nodded a little and began to make her way out of his doorframe.  “Your family won’t mind having me around?”

“I don’t think they would,” the Destroyer guessed.  His wife always liked guests and Kamaria had always wanted a pet--or...well...maybe what Kamaria secretly wanted, more than a pet, was another face in their household, something or someone to change the way their family was.  This seemed like a way to do it.

Adahy looked down at her things, as if she were disgraced by her toes, but, soon enough, she turned up once more and began to step towards the Peacemaker’s quarters.  “I’ll think about it, old man.”

Old man.  That was enough to get Drax to stop where he stood and reflect for a second; then, after processing it for a suitable amount of time, he too followed where the younger woman tread.  What would the shape of their world be, after their negotiations on Xandar?  The Destroyer knew not.  Well, not entirely.  One thing that had become apparent to him was that, after this point, there would no longer be a need for a Destroyer.  Drax could remain Destroyer, but the title could no longer stand for what it did.  For so long, in his too long life, he’d lived on hate, acted only on impulse, and felt so much rage.  His was a mission of destruction, and, in a new world that was building itself, such a role would no longer be necessary.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, this thing was inspired and developed by the deleted dialogue for Drax's tattoos from "The Art of Guardians of the Galaxy", the Abnett and Lanning run of "Guardians of the Galaxy", "Drax the Destroyer: Earthfall", the awesome "Drax: Guardian of the Galaxy" (ISBN-10: 130290213X), and the also awesome "Gamora: Guardian of the Galaxy" (ISBN-10: 1302902172).
> 
> If you love Drax, powerful women, fake religions, and really weird sci-fi, any of these comic collections are awesome.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading this!


End file.
